


Through Fire

by fearfully_beautifully_made



Series: Sparks [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sherlock and Mycroft's brother, Smut, Victor Trevor Being An Asshole, solving cases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 93,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7040602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearfully_beautifully_made/pseuds/fearfully_beautifully_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a doctor at the hospital Sherlock keeps ending up in because of his drug problems and abusive boyfriend.  They become friends and eventually something more.  </p><p>This work was written first because I love Johnlock and I think that no matter where John appeared in Sherlock's life, they would have had the same chemistry and same connection.  The second reason I wrote this fic was because I just can't get over the line in HLV when Mycroft says "Look what happened to the last one." (referencing his other brother) and plot bunnies have abounded in my head since.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello darlings!
> 
> I feel I should warn you (especially if you've read some of my other works) that this one is a bit dark. I promise you will get a happy ending but the path there won't be all rainbows and butterflies. If you have triggers related to drug use or abusive relationships I want to be very up front that these will be topics discussed within this work. (Everything will be offscreen, but it will be talked about). 
> 
> Next, I must thank my sweet friend dreamsindigita1 for indulging me and listening to me rant and ramble (particularly in regard to this mysterious brother that we know nothing about) and being nothing but encouraging and supportive.
> 
> I am hopelessly terrible at titles, summaries, and tagging. (Also, it should be noted that more tags will be added as I work on this fic and have finished hashing out the details.)
> 
> Lastly, I sadly own nothing and I make no profit from any of these works.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one and as ever your comments and feedback are thoroughly encouraged and appreciated.
> 
> Blessings!

_John_

 

Dr. John Watson had had an incredibly long day at the hospital. Most days were long days if he was being honest but there's been an influx in people coming in for a stomach virus and John wasn't entirely sure how many more times he could take being vomited on in a day before he went completely mental. It was days like this that John had to constantly remind himself of why he'd become a doctor in the first place. He'd wanted to help people and he incessantly needed to tell himself that every person he saw with a 24 hour bug needed his help.

The last patient he was seeing was in room 104, John grabbed the chart from the nurse's station and headed there, glancing over the file on his way. It was a John Doe who'd come in a few hours ago and had been moved to an isolated room shortly thereafter because he was aggravating other patients and other doctors.

Lovely. They always gave John these cases, in part because he was the newest on the staff and in part because he seemed to have a way with rowdy, disorderly patients. He took a deep breath and rapped on the door before stepping inside.

"Hello." He said as he came in and closed the door behind himself, "My name is Dr. Watson. What seems to be the trouble, sir?"

It was at that moment he looked up from the chart to see his patient. The man couldn't have been more than 20 or 21, only a few years younger than John himself by the looks of it. He had dark, unruly curly hair and looked quite gangly and underweight, if truth be told. And when he looked up John was completely taken by surprise at the set of eyes that met his. They were a stunning mix of blues and greens and greys that John couldn't begin to label if he tried. His eyes, while they seemed to pierce straight through John, were also dilated and a bit glassy; he was clearly high.

He cleared his throat. "I'm Doctor Watson."

"You've said that already." His patient interrupted him.

John blinked at him, "I suppose I have. Well it's no less true now than it was a few minutes ago."  John walked over to the bed and clicked his pen, “What’s your name?”

His patient cleared his throat, “Sherlock.”

John was surprised he’d come out with it so quickly.  From the looks of the notes every nurse and doctor in the main part of the hospital had tried to get it out of him and failed.  John wondered if it was his high was wearing off.

The patient huffed, “It’s not because the high is wearing off,” he said and John momentarily wondered if he’d said the last bit aloud.  “Although the high is in fact wearing off.”

“How did you know that’s what I was thinking about?” John asked curiously.

“Your surprise when I gave you my name was obvious, then the way your eyebrows settled back and the way you nodded just slightly to yourself indicated you had come up with a plausible reason for my acquiescence.  You’re a doctor and therefore you deduced I was high and assumed I was having a bad trip earlier on but have started to come out of it.  I wasn’t having a bad trip, Doctor, I never do. I know exactly how much to take to simply slow my mind down and escape the tedium of people at University.”

“That was brilliant.” John murmured.  Sherlock looked up at him in surprise.  “Well, not the taking drugs bit, that is really terrible for your body and someone as clever as you clearly are should know that you don’t control the drugs, the drugs control you.  But your inference about what I was thinking was really clever.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose up, “Do you think so?”

“Yes.” John said with a nod.  Then he cleared his throat, “So tell me, Sherlock, what brought you in today if you weren’t having a bad trip.”

The brightness in Sherlock’s eyes dimmed a bit and he looked down at his hands curled around the blanket.  John felt his stomach sink, he’d seen that look before, far too many times.

He sat down in the chair beside the bed, “Listen,” he said softly, “Anything you say here is strictly between us, there is nothing you can say here that anyone can make me repeat.”

Sherlock scowled and turned to glare at John, “I don’t need your pity, Doctor.  How dull.  How boring.  And you were doing so well.”

John swallowed back a snarky retort, “Alright, why don’t you tell me what happened and I can treat you and send you on your way, then.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I fell down the stairs.” he said, his voice devoid completely of emotion.  

“You expect me to believe that, do you?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I can’t control what you believe, Dr. Watson.  But if you examine my injuries you’ll find them to be consistent with injuries sustained from falling down a flight of stairs.  And I was high, as you’ll recall.”

John sighed, “Right.  Tell me about your injuries, then.  Where are they to start?”

“I have a couple of bruised ribs but they aren’t broken, a sprained wrist, and my knee was banged up pretty badly.  The paramedic took a look at my knee on the scene he thought it might have been dislocated.  He’s an idiot.  Although I could use a bit of morphine for the pain.”

“Ha. Ha.” John said, “Not bloody likely, and you know it.”

“Worth a try.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Well, let’s just take a look then, shall we?” John asked as he rose from the chair and went to the sink to wash his hands.  

“Is that really necessary?  I told you what was wrong, I probably wouldn’t have come in the first place if the paramedics hadn’t dragged me here.”

John dried his hands on a paper towel and tossed it before moving back to the bed.  “It’ll be quick and as painless as possible, I promise.”

“Is that what you tell all the boys?” Sherlock snarked.

John froze, completely surprised by Sherlock’s words, he felt the tips of his ears heat up and he cleared his throat.

“Sorry.” Sherlock murmured.  “That was a deduction I wasn’t expecting.  You really don’t seem bisexual, I’m sure most of the staff thinks you’re straight.”

“Right.” John said, “I’m sorry, how...?”

“You have a bit of product in your hair, you’re well groomed and obviously care about your appearance and even though you’re only wearing scrubs they’re clean and pressed. You’re overly compassionate and gentle for a male.  Although those stereotypes obviously don’t fit everyone, it just sort of came out, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”  

And he really did seem sorry, John thought, “It’s fine.” he said with a bit of a shrug.  “Most people don’t seem to notice even when I want them to.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and John felt himself flush further, “Sorry.  That was completely unprofessional.”   _Get it together, Watson_ . He seethed at himself, _this is your job.  Be a bloody professional._

“It’s alright.” Sherlock said, a grin tipping up the corner of his lips.  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

John rolled his eyes, “Shirt off, please.” John said, gesturing to the black t-shirt he was wearing with the words ‘May the _d/dt (mv)_ be with you.’ printed across the chest. John grinned at him, “Although I do like your shirt.”  He reached out and gently prodded Sherlock’s ribs, feeling for any anomalies in the smooth bone.  “You’re rather thin.” John commented.  “When was the last time you had a decent meal?” Sherlock started to respond but John looked up at him, “And I mean a real meal with real nutrients present.  I’m not that far out of Uni myself and I know the kind of shite you eat there.”

Sherlock shrugged, “I don’t really need to eat much.”

“Tell that to your body.” John said.  “Deep breath.” He watched Sherlock’s rib cage expand and contract, not missing the way he winced.  “Good.”  

“Eating slows me down.” Sherlock said.  “It makes my brain feel like it’s moving through sludge.”

“But wasn’t that the point of the heroin?” John asked, more to point out the fallacy in Sherlock’s thinking than to reinforce the recreational use of drugs.

Sherlock huffed, “It’s different.”

John hummed, “I wouldn’t know.” he said as he walked around the side of the bed to look at Sherlock’s back.  When John reached out Sherlock flinched and after a moment John saw why.  His back was covered in bruises at various stages of recovery; some were a deep red-purple whilst others had begun to turn yellow and Sherlock had tiny circular burn marks pressed into his spine.  John fought down the urge to wretch or punch someone.  “Let me treat those.” he said softly but firmly.  He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and started cleaning out the burns as gently as he could; Sherlock still flinched in spite of John’s attempt at broadcasting his movements.

“What no lecture?” Sherlock asked between gritted teeth.

“Would it help?  Would it change anything?” John asked sincerely as he began to apply some ointment to the marks.  There were nine of them and John fought to control his outrage at the monster who had done this. _Professional Distance._ His mind chanted at him.

Sherlock didn’t say anything as John covered them with gauze and John felt compelled to continue, “Look, Sherlock, I’m not judging you.” John said, when Sherlock turned to look at him skeptically, John raised his eyebrows, “I’m really not.” he said sincerely.  “You are so bright and you know what this... this....” John exhaled shakily and shook his head.  “You know that what is happening to you is wrong, don’t you?”  

Sherlock scoffed at him, putting on a brave face but John could see the insecurity in his eyes; he knew what that fear looked like, what it looked like when people had stopped believing in their own worth.

John continued the examination, taking Sherlock’s arm in his hand and checking his wrist.  It appeared to be just as Sherlock had said, a sprain and nothing more.  “There are options.” John continued as he moved down to Sherlock’s legs, the pants had been cut off at his thigh on his right leg and John gingerly pressed against the swollen flesh surrounding his bruised knee cap.

He reached down and felt for the pulse on the top Sherlock’s foot.  Sherlock jerked and then let out a groan of pain as he jostled his knee.  John looked up at him, “Sorry.  I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t.” Sherlock said his breath hissing out between his teeth.  “I’m ticklish.”

“I just need to check and make sure your pulse is still strong in your foot, there are a lot of bad things that can happen when you hurt your knee.” John said carefully feeling for a pulse.  The pulse felt strong and John breathed a sigh of relief.  

“Alright, I want to have some scans done.” John said, “I want to have an X-ray done of your ribs, I want one of your wrist, and I want one of your knee.”

“Unnecessary.” Sherlock said, crossing his arms over his chest.  

“Oy.” John said, “Which one of us is the doctor around here?”  Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John continued, “I worked very hard for that little M.D. attached to the end of my name, so you’re bloody well going to listen to me and have those scans so I can be sure nothing is seriously wrong when I send you home, yes?”

Sherlock nodded once.  “Fine.”

“Good.” John said with a nod.  “I’ll go and get the tests ordered, then.  Are you going to be completely unreasonable if I have one of the nurses take you to have the scans done?”

“I’m not unreasonable!” Sherlock protested.

“That’s not what your chart says.” John said with a grin.  “They were all completely traumatized by you.”

Sherlock huffed, “Well if they don’t want other people to know who is having affairs with whom they shouldn’t make it so bloody obvious.”

John laughed, “You’ll find no argument from me.”  He sighed and glanced down at his watch.  His shift was supposed to have been over two hours ago.  “Alright, let me go see how long it’ll be to get you in and I’ll be back.  Don’t upset my nurses in the meantime, yes?”

Sherlock nodded and John headed out and up to radiology, shouting to the nurse on duty in the station across from Sherlock’s room, “Lucy, who’s on in radiology tonight?  Please say Stamford.”

Lucy looked at a chart, “Ummmm.  Yes, looks like Stamford.”

“Perfect.” John said with a grin.  He sprinted up the stairs and into radiology.  “Stamford!” he called out, startling the man running the machines.

“Fuck!” he shouted and John laughed.

“How long of a wait is there to have some x-rays run?” John asked.

Stamford turned and looked at John over the top of his glasses, “It’s 6, John.  I was supposed to stop an hour ago.  She’s the last one I have before I go home for the night.”

“Can you run one more patient?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Mike.  Please?  It’s important.” John pleaded.

Mike shook his head, “No, John.” he turned back to taking scans of the woman in the MRI.  “They’re all important.  And I’m supposed to be going on a date at 7 and I have to go home and shower first.” he said.

“It’s the victim of an abusive relationship.” John said quietly.  “I don’t think he’s going to stay the night and I doubt he’d come back in the morning if I asked him to.  I’ll owe you one.  First round’s on me the next time we go out?”

Mike sighed, but John knew he had won; Mike was a softie, it’s why he was still here on a Friday night an hour after his shift was supposed to have ended.  “Fine, but the whole tab is on you when we go out.”

“Deal.” John said, patting Mike on the shoulder.  “You’re the best, I’ll bring him up.”

John headed back downstairs and knew there was trouble before he even got to the room.  One of his nurses, Lucy, was shouting something.  John couldn’t quite make out the words but she didn’t sound happy.

“What is going on in here?!” John asked.  

Lucy turned and glared at John, “He sits here, so high and mighty judging everyone else but he’s just some stupid drug addict, Uni kid.”

“That’s enough.” John said softly, but his voice brooked no argument.  “You’re relieved of your obligation to check in on Sherlock.  He’ll be under my direct care for the rest of his stay here.  Thank you.”

She huffed and stomped out of the room, John turned to Sherlock, “I asked for one thing.” he said, exasperated.  “All I asked for when I left was that you didn’t upset my nurses.”  He grabbed the wheelchair in the corner and wheeled it over to Sherlock’s bed, “And Lucy is the worst one to piss off.  She’ll be fuming for days.” he said.  “But you probably knew that already.”

Sherlock huffed as John helped him onto the edge of the bed, “No weight on that knee, do you understand me?”  John asked.  “We’ll get you turned around and in this chair and then we’ll head up to Radiology.”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock muttered sarcastically.

John didn’t give him much of a choice in the way he got into the chair using John’s support, Sherlock didn’t weigh very much and John all but picked him up.

“So why didn’t you join the army?” Sherlock asked casually as John started wheeling him toward the elevator.

“Stop it!” John said, completely shocked.

Sherlock’s head ducked down, his shoulders curling in on themselves.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” John said as he pushed the button to summon the elevator.  “I just meant there is no way you could have guessed I was going to be in the military.  Someone had to have told you.”

The elevator arrived with a ding and John pushed Sherlock in, Sherlock straightened his shoulders, “I don’t _guess_.” he looked over at John.

“Well go on then.  Impress me.  Again.”

Sherlock practically preened, “Your hair, for starters, it’s grown out a bit now but you can tell you aren’t used to it being the length it is.  You keep brushing it back off your forehead and you run your hands through your hair much more often than someone used to wearing product in their hair would.  Then there’s your mannerisms; you’re brusque and to the point but it’s obviously a trait which you’ve been trained to have, since you tend to ramble when you’re feeling sentimental or having an emotional reaction to something.  In addition to the blunt way you speak, you issue commands the way someone used to receiving commands would.  Deduction; you were trained to go into the military, most likely to pay for your schooling, but have backed out.  That’s the most likely reason you’ve picked up the extra shifts here, to make up the difference to pay back your loans.  Additionally, that’s the reason you’ve stayed so late to help me; the extra bit of money from overtime doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s amazing.”  John watched as a flush colored Sherlock’s cheeks at the praise.  

“Do you think so?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.  It’s completely extraordinary.” John said matter of factly.

“That isn’t what people normally say.” Sherlock said.

“What do people normally say?” John asked.

“Some variation of piss off.” Sherlock said, a grin tipping up at the corner of his mouth as though he felt he was sharing a joke with John.

John snorted, and thought perhaps he might have been as he felt a matching grin fall into place on his own face.  “You weren’t completely right, though.” John said.

“What did I miss?” Sherlock asked.

They stopped at the 3rd floor and John pushed the wheelchair out of the door, “I’m not here because I want the overtime.  I’m here because you need someone to care about you and I want to be that person, even if it’s only for the next few hours.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him, speechless for a moment; his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to decide whether John was being sincere or not.  John let him look his fill.

“So why didn’t you go into the army?” Sherlock asked again after a pause.

“What, you can’t deduce it?” John teased.  “My mom got sick.” he confessed.  “She has cancer and she’s dying.  I just couldn’t go overseas and risk never seeing her again.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock said again and John couldn't help thinking that he was incredibly polite for someone whom everyone though had no manners.

John hit the button that opened the door to the machines they would use to run scans on Sherlock’s body.  “It’s just the way life goes sometimes.  Besides, I probably would have gotten myself shot over there, anyway.”

He helped Sherlock up onto the table, “Listen, I just need to finish up a couple of charts while Mike does the scans, alright?  I’ll be back before you’re done.”  John wasn’t quite sure whom he was trying harder to reassure, Sherlock or himself, but for some reason he was determined to make Sherlock understand that he was someone he could rely on.

Sherlock nodded, and in that moment he looked so young and frail, and John felt his heart clench painfully.  A moment later, Sherlock straightened his spine and attempted to put a mask of indifference on his face; it was clearly something he’d had a fair bit of practice with and John wished with all his heart that he hadn’t.

“I’ll be back.  I promise.” John said once more before turning and heading out of the room and next door to where Mike was.  “I need scans of his ribs, his wrist, and his knee.” he told Mike.  “I just have to finish up some charts and I’ll be back up.  If you’re done before I get back up here, page me.”

“Righto.” Mike said as he headed in to get the machines set up around Sherlock.

John headed back downstairs to finish filling out his charts and found the head of trauma standing there finishing hers as well.  “What are you still doing here, John?” she asked looking down at her watch.  “Weren’t you supposed to have left two and a half hours ago?”

John nodded as he pulled out a couple of files to write some notes in, “Yeah but there’ve been so many people in with that 24 hour bug, then there was the MVA that came in, and I’m just finishing up with my last patient.  He’s up having some scans done.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a busy day.” Sarah commented.

John shrugged and filled in a couple of charts, “We all have.”  When he finished he glanced down at his watch, he probably still had a few minutes before Mike finished with the scans.  “Right, well have a good night, Sarah.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Night, John.” she replied.

John went down to the cafeteria and convinced the cook to make him a couple of omelets to go.  When he'd finished packaging up the food for John, John asked, “Can I have a couple of oranges, too?” John asked.  The cook glared at him but handed them over.  “Thanks, Sam.” John said, “You’re the best.”

John’s pager went off a moment later and he looked down and saw it was Mike’s code.  “Sorry, I’ve got to run.  Thanks again.”  

A few minutes later he was back upstairs and he all but ran into Mike’s girlfriend.  “Hi, Emily.” John said leaning in to press a quick kiss to her cheek.  “I’m sorry, it’s my fault he’s running late, I really needed these scans.”

She rolled her eyes and opened the door for John, “I’m starting to worry if he’ll even remember what I look like.  The hours you keep here, honestly.” she tutted.

Sherlock was back in the wheelchair, looking completely exhausted if John was honest and Mike was packing up his things.  “Emily, my sweet,” he said hurriedly, tucking things away into his bag, “You’re early.”

“And you’re late.” she said with a smile.

Mike pressed a kiss to her lips then turned to John, “Your scans were sent to the technician, they’ll be done in an hour or so.”

“Thanks, Mike.” John said, patting his shoulder, “Well you two get out of here, enjoy your evening.”

When Emily was out the door, Sherlock called out to Mike, startling them all, “She’ll say yes.” he said, softly enough that Emily couldn’t hear but Mike could.

Mike stared at him before a grin broke out across his face, “Bloody hell.” he muttered.  He pointed at Sherlock then turned and rushed out after Emily.

“He’s proposing?” John asked as he handed the food to Sherlock and started to push them back to Sherlock’s room.  “How did you know?”

“He was nervous, he kept talking about his girlfriend and what she was like.  He might have been practicing the words he was going to use as descriptors, come to think of it.  Then there was the obvious bulge of a ring box in his pocket that he kept fiddling with.  He’s clearly _smitten_ with her, as she is with him.”

“You really are the most brilliant person I’ve ever met.” John said as he rolled Sherlock into the elevator.

Sherlock blushed and looked down at his lap, clearly unused to being given compliments.  John’s heart positively ached for this man.  

When they got back to the room John helped Sherlock back into the bed and pulled over the tray before taking out the containers of food.  He opened one of the omelet containers and placed it in front of Sherlock, “Omelets are literally the only passable food Sam can make.” John said grinning as he handed Sherlock a fork.

Sherlock took a bite and hummed approvingly as John sat down and opened his box.  “So what are you studying at Uni?” John asked taking a bite of his eggs.

“Chemistry.” Sherlock replied, “But it’s terribly dull.  I really thought by this point we would have learned something harder.  I thought that was the point of University.”

John poured them both a cup of coffee, “Do you take sugar?” John asked, realizing he’d grabbed neither cream nor sugar from the cafeteria.

Sherlock nodded.

“Sorry, hold that thought, I’ll be right back.” John said as he dashed toward the nurses station and grabbed the sugar and creamer packets they kept behind the desk for when they brought coffee upstairs.  He handed Sherlock the sugar and cream packets and watched in amusement as Sherlock proceeded to dump six packets of sugar into his coffee cup.  “Not one for bitter drinks, I see.”

Sherlock looked up, a flash of insecurity in his eyes.  John just grinned at him, “It’s fine.  Dr. Welle can’t stand the taste of coffee either, I’ve never seen a man put that much sugar in his drink and he’s 55.”

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee and his nose wrinkled a bit, “Hospital coffee really is terrible.”

“This is the good stuff, believe it or not.  It’s the stuff the cooks make in the kitchen just for themselves.” John said.  

“Does everyone owe you favors or something?  Or are you just that well like by everyone?” Sherlock asked.

John shrugged and said around a bit of egg, “I try to have good relationships with my coworkers and people like me overall.”

Sherlock nodded, “I can see why.” he said softly before looking back at his eggs.

John felt his chest warm with the praise.  “Well, I’m sure you have all sorts of friends at Uni.  You’re so clever, I’m sure you could have friends anywhere, be friends with anyone you wanted to be.”

Sherlock snorted.  “Hardly.”

John felt his heart sink.  Sherlock waved him off, taking a bite of his toast before saying, “It’s fine, Dr. Watson.  Whatever you’re going to say about them being jealous or them just not understanding me, or whatever rubbish you were going to spout off there’s no need.  I’ve heard every placation imaginable from people whom my parents paid to test me and paid to care.”

“I wasn’t going to placate you.” John said taking another bite.

“Mmmm.  That’s not quite true.” Sherlock said.

“I wasn’t!” John protested.  “I just don’t understand it, is all.”

“Well, you’ve seen people’s reactions to me first hand, Dr. Watson.  Your whole staff thinks I’m mental.” Sherlock said.  John could hear the way Sherlock was trying to sound aloof and as though he didn’t really care but he wasn’t quite as good at hiding his emotions as he believed himself to be.

“Well, I don’t think you’re mental.  I think you can be a bit rude and brutally honest, but I think the world needs a little more honesty.”

Sherlock snorted, “You only think that because you don’t have any secrets you don’t want people to know.”

John shook his head, “I wouldn’t say that’s true.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he tried to deduce John once more, trying to find his secret.  His brow furrowed, “What is it?” he asked.

John chuckled and took a sip of his coffee, “Maybe people just need to get better at hiding their secrets, maybe that’s why they don’t like you; it shows them their weakness.”

Sherlock scowled and John tossed him an orange.  Sherlock caught it but set it down on the tray almost immediately. “What am I missing?” he mused.  Folding his hands under his chin as though he was praying while staring intently at John.

John grinned at him and popped a piece of orange into his mouth.  After a few minutes of Sherlock’s staring John realized he wasn’t going to speak to him, it seemed like he was more looking through him than at him.  “Sherlock?” John asked, when there was no response John shrugged and wrote it off as an eccentricity before grabbing a medical journal from his bag and reading.

Sherlock came out of his state a few minutes later and glared at John, “What is it?” he asked again.

John chuckled, “It doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock stared at him and opened his mouth to speak but before he could there was a knock on the door and Bill, the technician who printed the x-rays came in carrying a file, “Hey, Dr. Watson.” he said with a grin, “Here’re those scans you ordered.”

“Thanks, Bill.” John said, taking the file from him with a grin.  “Have a good night.” John said with a wave as he opened the file to look at the pictures.  

“Right.” John said, flipping through the scans, “Everything looks pretty good, your wrist is sprained, which you deduced.  Your knee, on a skeletal level looks fine; rest, ice, compression, and elevation for both your knee and your wrist.  I’ll get you a bandage to wrap your knee and a wrap for your wrist before you go.”  

He pulled out the picture of Sherlock’s ribs.  He moved the empty container off the tray and laid the scans in front of Sherlock, “These are more concerning.” he said.  He pointed at the shadowy lines on Sherlock’s third and fourth ribs on the left side of his chest.  “It looks like you’ve fractured your ribs.  You’re going to have to be very careful with them, there isn’t really much I can do to treat broken ribs.  Get lots of rest and avoid aggravating them further and they should heal on their own.  But they will be pretty painful for a while, breathing too deeply with probably hurt, laughing, sneezing, coughing, stretching the wrong way, any of those things can cause pain and that’s to be expected.”

John opened a drawer in the room and pulled out two different sized elastic bandages, “So you probably already know how to do this but I’m going to show you how to wrap your knee and how to wrap your wrist.”  

John bound his wrist and knee carefully, making sure it was tight enough to help stabilize but not so tight as to cut off blood flow.  “Feel alright?” he asked.  

Sherlock nodded, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stared at each other for a moment before John cleared his throat.  “Right, well, I suppose you’re free to go.”

“Yes.  Of course.” Sherlock said, “Thank you for your assistance.” he stood out of bed and wobbled slightly on his knee.

John reached out and steadied him, “Come on, let me get you a cab, yes?  You can’t walk home.”

“I could.” Sherlock grumbled.

“As your doctor I say you can’t.  Now, let’s go.”  John pulled his mobile out of his pocket and dialed the number for the cab company he had in his phone for instances exactly like this.

“Yes, hello.” John said when someone answered the phone, “I need a cab at Addenbrooke’s hospital.”

“That’ll be about 5 minutes.” the man at the other end of the phone replied.

“Cheers.” John said before hanging up.  They made their way to the lobby, John carefully supporting Sherlock along the way.  When they got there John glanced down at his watch, “Just a couple of minutes and they’ll be here.” he said.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement but John knew his mind was a million miles from where they were.  

“Here.” he said.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, on the back he scribbled down his mobile number, “This is my number, if you ever need anything.” John said.

“What could I possibly need?” Sherlock asked but took the card none the less.

“Dunno.” John said with a shrug, feeling his cheeks heat slightly under Sherlock’s gaze.  “If you need someone to talk to, or you want to know about the options I’d mentioned earlier, or if you just want to have a cup of tea; you know how to get ahold of me.”

“Dr. Watson... I don’t know how....”

“John.” he said.  “My name is John.”

“John.” Sherlock said softly, rolling the word around in his mouth.  “Thank you.  This is... I truly....”

He swallowed and John smiled at him, “You’re welcome.”

The cab pulled up a moment later and John bundled Sherlock in and handed the driver some money.  “Be careful with those ribs, yes?”

“I’ll do my best.”  Sherlock replied.

“See that you do.”

“Goodbye, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock paused and looked up at him, “Goodbye, John.”

“Bye, Sherlock.”

He closed the door and the cab pulled away but John stood watching the cab go until it was long out of sight and John felt there was nothing left he could do.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sherlock_

Sherlock Holmes was not one for fanciful notions and hopeful idealism.  If anything he was what could be described as rather cynical, though he’d rather call himself a realist.  The point is that Sherlock wasn’t prone to flights of fancy and didn’t often find his head in the clouds, aside from the times he took drugs to achieve such an end.

That said, he found himself standing on the street outside his apartment turning the card John had given him over and over in his hands.  He wasn't quite sure what to make of John Watson.  He hadn’t been like anything Sherlock had expected; truth be told, he was unlike anyone Sherlock had ever met and Sherlock was fascinated by this anomaly among men. He’d been _unexpected_.  And if there was anything that Sherlock liked, it was the unexpected.

Sherlock was used to being different.  He’d been different his entire life, and while, if he were being honest, he couldn’t say it was something that didn’t bother him he could say it bothered him less than it used to.  Sherlock had been a lonely child until other children learned that he had value and for a while he had been quite popular but not at all for the reasons one might wish to be popular.  The children had learned that they were capable of using him to cheat on their maths homework or in any subject matter they were struggling with and had proceeded to do so with little remorse.  

Not much changed as he got older, he’d found that there was always an ulterior motive when someone was kind to him.  They wanted Sherlock to _deduce_ something for them, or they wanted to have sex, or they wanted someone to pin the blame on and who better than the student the teachers already didn’t like.  People didn’t want him, they wanted what he could give them.  Old words that he could never seem to shake no matter how he tried echoed around in his mind,  _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_.

What Sherlock could not understand was what John Watson wanted from him.  As far as Sherlock could tell, there was nothing he wanted that Sherlock could give him and yet he’d been seemingly genuine in his kindness toward Sherlock.  He was befuddled and it wasn’t often he could say that.  

He was currently standing outside of the flat he shared with his boyfriend and battling his feelings of trepidation and anxiety.  Realistically he knew there was no reason to feel anxious anymore, the danger had passed but he couldn’t bring himself to go in just yet.  He lit up a cigarette and leaned against the light post, staring up at the light he could see shining through their kitchen window.

Victor was probably just coming down from his high, if Sherlock’s calculations were correct (and they almost always were.)  When Victor wasn’t high, he was actually almost disgustingly sweet.  He made Sherlock tea and cleaned up after him, he called him pet names and was constantly touching him.  He was into a bit of rough sex, but Sherlock didn’t really find sex all that enjoyable regardless of whether it was rough or not.  Whatever Victor wanted they essentially did because Sherlock just wanted to get on with it so he could do other things.  

They’d been friends (or at least the closest thing to a friend Sherlock had ever had) for about two months when Victor had asked him if he wanted to have sex.  Truth be told, Sherlock hadn’t but he'd let it happen because it was what Victor had wanted.  And Victor seemed to thoroughly enjoy the control he got to assert over Sherlock’s body.  Sherlock’s body was just a transport, so what did he care what happened to it?

Another two months passed and Victor asked Sherlock if he wanted to move in with him.  Sherlock had immediately said yes.  It meant more frequent sex (usually a couple of times a week) but it was so much better than living in a dorm with people who hated him.  It was such a better option than being trapped with people who only wanted to make your life difficult.

They’d been living together for a week the first time Victor brought drugs into the flat.  Sherlock had initially declined; he was brilliant, he’d read the research about what drugs did to your mind and what they did to your body.  Victor had asked if it was alright if he did them while Sherlock was there and Sherlock had shrugged, why would he care about what Victor did to his mind and his body?

The first problem they encountered was that Victor turned quite emotional when he did drugs.  It was impossible to know what sort of trip he was going to have (Sherlock had made charts of every variable he could conceive and still hadn’t discovered what could change the outcome of his emotional state)  Sometimes his trips were lovely.  He was funny and sweet and easy going.

But other times he was none of those things.  More often than not he was mean and violent when he did drugs.  The first time it had happened, Sherlock had been so taken off guard that Victor had literally knocked him out with a frying pan.  Sherlock had woken up half an hour later with a massive goose egg on his skull and Victor curled up in the corner weeping inconsolably.  

Calming him down had been ridiculously tedious, he had been in a panic and wouldn’t let Sherlock touch him because he “didn’t deserve his forgiveness.”  Sherlock had rolled his eyes and told him to make sure it didn’t happen again.  Well, needless to say, it had happened again and again.  In the past 6 months since he and Victor had been living together, he’d been to the hospital 4 times.  His personality was generally so off-putting that no one ever looked twice, never thought to see what was happening right in front of their faces.

It didn’t matter, though.  It was September and in 8 months he was going to graduate.  He’d leave Victor, leave this place and go find a place of his own, a job of his own, and he would do what he wanted to do.  For now Victor was the best option, he had nowhere else to go.

As if on cue, a black town car rounded the corner and pulled up to him on the sidewalk.  Sherlock dropped the butt of the cigarette he’d been smoking onto the pavement and stomped it out, glaring at the car as the back door opened and Mycroft climbed out.

His brother walked over to him, “It was a stupid thing you did tonight.” he said.  “What did you take?”

“What does it matter?” Sherlock asked contemptuously.  “Don’t pretend you care, Mycroft.  I know the truth.  I know you.”

“The ignorance of youth.” Mycroft said.  “You think you know everything, understand everything, but you have no idea what the _real world_ is like, baby brother.”

Sherlock shrugged, “That may be, but I know what _you_ are like and you _repel me._ ” Sherlock looked him up and down, “You stand there in your suit _they_ bought for you, ride around in a car _they_ pay for, and you swear you allegiance to a power that doesn’t give a damn about you.  You sell your soul for power and if that’s the real world, rest assured I will have no part in it.”  Sherlock turned away from him and started toward his flat.

“I didn’t come here to argue with you, Sherlock.” Mycroft called after him.

“Well then you’ve failed spectacularly.” Sherlock called over his shoulder.

“I came here to offer you a place to go.” Mycroft said, with something that resembled tenderness in his voice.  The tenderness, the pretense that he cared infuriated Sherlock.

Sherlock turned around and stalked back to Mycroft, encroaching on his personal space, “I don’t want a thing from you, Mycroft.” Sherlock hissed.  “I would rather burn.”

Sherlock turned as the car door opened and one of Mycroft’s minions started to approach.  “It’s fine.” Mycroft assured the man.  “Get back in the car.”

Sherlock turned once more and began walking away from him.

“This feud between us is petty and juvenile, Sherlock.” Mycroft shouted.

Sherlock ignored him and stalked up the stairs into flat, he could hear Victor pacing around the kitchen anxiously.

“Babe?” Victor called out when Sherlock opened the door.

Sherlock didn’t respond but it didn’t matter, Victor was at the door a moment later looking Sherlock over.  “Oh God.” he murmured.  “I’m sorry.  Fuck.  I’m so sorry.  Are you alright?”

“Can we not do this, this time?” Sherlock asked gesturing between the two of them.

“Do what?” Victor asked following Sherlock to the kitchen where Sherlock pulled down a clean glass and the bottle of aspirin.  

“The caring lark.” Sherlock said, he quickly swallowed the pills and drained the glass of water before setting the cup purposely on the counter rather than in the sink.  “I’m exhausted and Mycroft just showed up outside and I just want to go to bed.”

“Mycroft is here?” Victor asked, his face paling.

“Oh for goodness sake, Victor.” Sherlock spat.  “He wasn’t here for you.  He was here for me.  He wants to take me away from here and undoubtedly use me for something for the government he loves so dearly.”

Sherlock pushed past Victor and walked into the bedroom, gingerly stripping out of his t-shirt and torn trousers.  He threw the denims into the trash and tossed the shirt toward the laundry bin before pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms and climbing into bed.  

Victor closed the door behind himself and climbed into bed, staring at Sherlock.  Sherlock could feel the weight of his gaze even though he wasn’t looking at him.

“Go to sleep Victor.  We’re fine, everything's the way it always is.” That was the absolute most that Sherlock could do when it came to reassurance.  

“I love you.” Victor said softly.

Sherlock almost scoffed out loud, but held it back just in time.  “Good night, Victor.” Sherlock said, rolling on his side and trying to find a position that didn’t aggravate his damned ribs.  He would never understand why people said the words _I love you_.  They never really meant anything.  They were an empty platitude, as far as Sherlock could tell.  They were words used to soothe wounds, words that meant you could do whatever you wanted to the other person and they were supposed to forgive your every flaw.  They were words to reassure people of their worth.  Sherlock hated them.

Sherlock sighed, the last thing in his mind before he fell asleep was an image of John Watson’s caring face and John Watson’s voice telling him he had options.  He was wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments and feedback on this story have been overwhelmingly sweet and thoughtful; I am so incredibly humbled by your words. I truly hope the rest of the work lives up to what everyone seems to hope it will be.
> 
> Blessings.

_ John _

It had been two months since John had last seen Sherlock Holmes but he would be lying if he said he didn’t think about him and worry about him at an alarming frequency.  It wasn’t as though John had never had a patient in an abusive relationship before, of course he had.  And sadly, Sherlock wasn’t even the youngest patient he’d ever had who was being abused.  John had seen patients go back to their abuser time and time again; he’d seen first hand people who truly felt like they didn’t have options, who felt they didn’t have a support system, who had no way to get out.  His heart always broke for people in these sort of situations; they seemed so incredibly hopeless and John always wished there was something he could do to help.

But there was something about Sherlock that stuck in John’s mind.  There was something about how incredibly alone he had seemed, almost like he  _ really  _ didn’t have anyone.  All this to say, John found himself wondering about him fairly often and hoping he was alright.

Tonight, however, John Watson was not thinking about Sherlock Holmes. He had just gotten off of a long shift at the hospital and he had tomorrow off.  He'd decided in light of the day he'd had a night at the pub was exactly what he deserved and he was intent on enjoying himself.  The bartender had just handed him a pint of his favourite beer and he was chatting up a blonde on the barstool next to him named Jane.  His night was looking very promising indeed when his mobile rang.  He glanced down at the Caller ID and saw the hospital’s number.  “Bloody hell.” he murmured.  “I’m so sorry.” he said looking up at Jane, “It’s the hospital, I have to take this.”  

He stood and moved outside where it wasn’t quite so loud.  “Dr. Watson, speaking.” he answered.

“John?” Sarah’s voice came through the phone sounding surprised and John felt a spark of hopefulness that she hadn’t intended to call him, perhaps it had been an accident and his night hadn’t been ruined after all.

“Hi Sarah.” he said, “Were you meaning to call me?”

“I’m not sure.” she said.  “We just admitted a patient, Sherlock Holmes, the ID says and you’re listed as his emergency contact on his school forms.”

“I’m listed as his emergency contact?” John asked in bewilderment.

“Do you know him?”

“He was a patient.” he said.  “Months ago.”

“Why does he have your mobile number?”

“That’s not any of your business.” John said.  He’d already started walking back toward the hospital.

“Did you sleep with a patient?”

“Of course not!” John all but shouted at her.  “Why is that the assumption that you automatically make?”

“I don’t know.  That’s just usually what answer is when the person says that’s none of your business.”

“No, I didn’t sleep with him.” John sighed.  “Look, I’ll be there in a few minutes.  Is he alright?”

“He’s unconscious.  They aren’t sure what happened to him but his lip is split and he’s got an abrasion running from his forehead to his left cheek.  Vitals are stable but some boys say they found him lying outside the science building.”

“Christ.” John said, rubbing his hand over his eyes.  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.  I’m almost to the hospital.”

“Room 225.” Sarah said.

“Right, thanks.”  

Five minutes later John was coming into the hospital and heading up the stairs.  He heard the racket before he even got to the room and knew without a doubt that Sherlock was awake.  John poked his head in the door, the room was in absolute upheaval.  Sherlock was looking exceedingly defensive as he pointed at one nurse, clearly deducing something while another nurse and a doctor stood having a row with each other, interspersed with bouts of turning to shout at Sherlock.  “Everyone shut up!” John shouted over the din.  The room turned to look at him in unison and he glared at them.  “Right.  Dr. Welle, please tell me what’s going on.”

“I’ve been seeing Clara, but according to this boy.” he said, pointing at Sherlock, “She’s been sleeping with Andrew.” he said gesturing at the nurse who’d been shouting at Sherlock.

John rubbed his hands over his eyes, “For fuck’s sake.” he grumbled.  “I meant with our  _ patient _ .  I don’t give a fuck about which one of you is sleeping with which.” he said shaking his head.  “This is exactly why I don’t have sex with people at work.  Andrew, out.” he said pointing to the door.  Andrew left, hands clenched into fists at his side, clearly still seething.  “Dr. Welle, have you done an examination?  Do you have any idea what’s actually wrong with our patient?”  Dr. Welle had the good grace to look ashamed of himself as he shook his head.  “Get out of the room as well then.”  He turned to Clara, “What do you know about the patient?”

“He was brought in unconscious, he woke up a few minutes ago and it’s been chaos ever since.” she said glaring at Sherlock.

“Right.  You’re out of here as well.  You all need to learn how to be bloody professionals.” John growled.  

When Clara left the room he slammed the door and moved over to Sherlock’s bed.  The anger faded from his veins as he looked at Sherlock on the bed, he looked thinner and more tired than the last time John had seen him.  “Are you alright?” he asked softly.

Sherlock nodded, “Sorry.” he murmured to John.  “I shouldn’t have deduced she was sleeping with that other nurse.  It just sort of came out.  Although, in my defense, there were no signs whatsoever that she’d been seeing the doctor.”

John snorted. “It’s fine.”  He pulled a pen light out of the drawer next to the sink and turned it on.  “Follow this with your eyes for me, please.” he watched the movement in Sherlock’s eyes, miraculously it didn’t look like Sherlock had a concussion. “It’s not your fault they’re behaving like bratty children.  They have a job to do and people’s lives are in their hands, they have a responsibility to put away their drama and take care of their patients.”  

John reached out and felt along Sherlock’s scalp pressing gently, he didn’t feel any cuts or abnormalities, “Do you know if you have any head injuries other than the one on your face?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I don’t think so.” he replied.  

“Good.”  John wheeled a stool over to the bedside and sat down beside Sherlock examining the cut that started in the middle of his eyebrow and drew down across his temple and over his cheekbone.  “Any other injuries that I should be aware of?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head and John snapped on a pair of gloves before he cleaned the cut on Sherlock’s face as gently as he could.  Sherlock hissed when the alcohol touched his skin.  “Sorry.” John said softly.  John tsked as he looked at the wound once it was cleaned out, “You’re going to need a few stitches.” he said.

Sherlock nodded but otherwise didn’t respond.  “Do you want to tell me what happened?” John asked.

“I ran into a pole.” Sherlock deadpanned.

John nodded and didn't call him out on the obvious lie, it wasn’t his business; Sherlock was an adult and as such he was responsible for his own choices.  “I thought you might call.” John said casually as he pulled out the suture kit.  “This is a local anesthetic.” he told Sherlock as he eased the needle into his cheek and depressed the plunger.  “Before it got this bad again, I thought you might call.  I thought you might want to hear some of those options.”

As they waited for Sherlock’s cheek to numb Sherlock turned his face to look John in the eyes, “I wanted to.” he said softly.  “But once I wasn’t here anymore I thought you couldn’t have meant it.”

“I mean it.” John said sincerely.

Sherlock looked away from him, “Why?  What do you get out of it?”

“Aside from the chance to help someone out of a terrible situation?  I get to know you’re safe.  I get to not be worried about you, I get to stop wondering when I’m going to see you in here again and how bad it might be next time.”  

John shook his head, “Sorry.  That wasn’t very professional of me, either.  We’re just making a mess of your care tonight.  But in my defense,” John said as he reached out and pinched the wound closed with a gloved hand, “I did just get off of a 16 hour shift and I’m pretty worn out.” 

Sherlock started to speak but John shushed him, “Don’t move for a minute, let me get the cut sewn up first, yes?”

They were quiet for the few minutes it took John to suture his cheek and when he was done Sherlock turned his eyes on him once more, all the more piercing this time since Sherlock wasn’t high.  “Did you really worry about me?”

John nodded, “All the time.”

“Is it anyone who’s being abused?  Or is it me in particular?” Sherlock asked, his head tilted to the side, staring at John as though he could see into John’s soul.

John rubbed the back of his neck, “It’s both.  There’s a soft spot in my heart for people in situations like yours.  But it’s you in particular.  I don’t know why.” John said with a shrug, “There’s just something about you, you seem so alone and I don’t want you to feel that way.”

Sherlock looked away and down at his lap once more.  

“Where are you going tonight?” John asked.  “I know you aren’t going to stay in the hospital, you seem to hate this place.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Back to my flat.” 

“Look, it’s none of my business, Sherlock and you can absolutely tell me to piss off and I won’t be the least bit offended, but you live with the person who’s doing this, right?”

Sherlock looked up at him, “Yes.  But by the time I get home he won’t be high anymore and I won’t be in any danger.”

“Right.  Well, it’s your choice and like I said I won’t judge you one way or the other, but if you want a place to stay for the night I have a sofa.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John as though he were trying to work out what John could possibly want in exchange.

“There’s no catch.” John said quickly.  “It’s just a place to get a good night’s sleep and a little peace and quiet.”

Sherlock stared at him a moment longer, puzzled, “Why?  What benefit could helping me possibly afford you?” 

John shrugged, “Like I said before, I get to know you’re safe.  And I get to know that you are spending the night somewhere that you won’t have to worry about someone getting high and hurting you.  Other than that, nothing much except maybe the pleasure of your company if you’re up for chatting.”

Sherlock looked conflicted for a moment, twisting his fingers together and staring at his lap.  He looked so young and so lost and John’s heart broke for him.  He desperately hoped Sherlock would take him up on his offer.

“Just for one night.” Sherlock said.  “Then I’ll be back out of your hair.”

John smiled, “Deal.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lips tipped up into a grin and they just looked at each other for a moment.  Then John rubbed his hands over his thighs before standing, “Right.  Are you sure there’s nothing else I need to take a look at before we leave?”

Sherlock nodded, “I’m fine.”  

“Come on, then.” John said, helping Sherlock up out of the bed.  He looked steady enough on his feet so John let go and they headed out the door.  “We’ll catch a cab back to my flat. I should warn you, though, it’s nothing fantastic.”

Sherlock shrugged, “It’s fine.”

They walked out the door and Sherlock hailed a cab seemingly out of thin air, “Huh.” John said, climbing in and telling the cabbie the address as he scooted across the bench to make room for Sherlock, “I can never find a cab out here at this time of night.”

Sherlock sighed, “It’s a perk of one’s brother being the British government.  I’m fairly certain he sends them wherever I am at any given time.”

John snorted, sure Sherlock joking, but when he looked over at him Sherlock didn’t look like he was kidding.  “Are you serious?”

Sherlock nodded.  “I feign ignorance because it’s convenient to have them around but I would rather die than acknowledge that he is helping me in some way.”

“You are the most interesting person I’ve ever met, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock looked over at him, clearly thinking he was being mocked, after a moment he said, “You’re serious.”

“Of course I am.” John said sincerely.  “How could you not be the most interesting person anyone has ever met?  Even if they don’t like you they must think you’re fascinating.”

Sherlock snorted and turned to look back out the window, “I don’t think it works like that, Dr. Watson.”

“John.” John corrected.

John saw the corner of Sherlock’s lips tip up from his profile, “John.” he repeated softly.

Sherlock tipped his head back against the seat and was asleep within minutes, John couldn’t help the smile that tipped up the corner of his lips at the sight.  When the taxi turned the corner Sherlock’s head slipped down off the head rest and landed on John’s shoulder and still somehow he didn’t wake.

There was something about this act that made John’s heart clench with tenderness for Sherlock.  He couldn’t say what it was for certain, but it felt a lot like wonder at the trust Sherlock afforded him.  It felt to John like Sherlock falling asleep on his shoulder was an act of vulnerability and some part of John absolutely cherished this.

All too soon the cab was pulling up outside John’s building, John nudged Sherlock gently, “We’re here.” he said softly.

Sherlock sat bolt upright and glanced at John, even in the dim lighting John could see the blush colouring his cheeks.  “Sorry.” Sherlock said opening the door and climbing out.  

John paid the cabbie and followed Sherlock out of the cab, “This way.” John said, leading the way into the apartment building and up a few flights of stairs.  

He was suddenly feeling a bit anxious about the state of his flat.  What if he’d left laundry out?  What if he’d forgotten to wash up the dishes?  His flat really wasn’t anything spectacular, it was just a single room with a kitchen, bed, sofa, and a desk with a bathroom attached.

“It’s fine, John.” Sherlock said behind him.

John chuckled, “Are you a mind reader?  Is that your secret?” he said as he pushed the key into the lock.  

“No.  You’re fiddling with your keys and shuffling your feet, this coupled with the way you’re chewing on your lip would indicate nervousness.  You display none of these characteristics around me alone, so one might infer that my mere presence does not make you nervous on its own.  Presumably, since you live alone, in a fairly well lit building, and in an area with a statistically low crime rate, the prospect of climbing the stairs to your flat doesn’t cause anxiety either.  Deduction, you’re nervous about what I am going to think of your apartment and by extension your person.  Believe me when I say your flat, no matter its state of disarray, will be fine.”

“That's fantastic.” John said with a grin shot over his shoulder at Sherlock.  “But you haven’t been inside yet.” he said as he pushed the key into the lock.

“I was promised there would be a couch.” Sherlock said, and John realized how close Sherlock was standing behind him.  He could feel Sherlock’s breath tickling the back of his neck, making the hairs there stand on end.  “Is there a couch?”  Sherlock asked.

John cleared his throat, “Yes, there is a couch.” he said with a chuckle as he finally got the bloody door unlocked and pushed it open. "It's not much but it gives me a cheap place to live while I pay back loans."

He watched Sherlock as he looked around, probably deducing things about John's life that John couldn't fathom. "It's nice." Sherlock said with a quick smile in John's direction. He was trying to be polite but it sounded so insincere that John had to laugh. 

"It's really not." John said. "You don't have to be polite." Sherlock looked down at his feet but there was a pleased little smile on his face that made John's heart leap. "Can I make you a cup of tea?  Are you hungry?" John asked, “I don’t have much in at the moment but I could make some fried cheese, if you’d like.”

Sherlock shook his head, “I’d just really like to get some sleep, if that’s okay?”

“Of course.” John said with a nod.  “I’ve got some spare bedding I’ll put on the sofa.  And you'll probably need some pajamas.  You’re welcome to borrow a pair of my pajama trousers and a vest, the trousers will probably be too short and the t shirt will probably be way too big but it will be more comfortable to sleep in than what you’re currently wearing.” John said, looking at the pair of skinny jeans and hoodie Sherlock was wearing before moving to his drawers and digging through for some clothes for Sherlock; he pulled out the longest pair of pajamas he owned and the smallest t-shirt.

“You don’t need to go through all this trouble.” Sherlock said, tugging his sweatshirt off over his head and displaying a black t-shirt with the periodic table printed on it, John didn’t miss the way he winced at the movement.  He wondered if his ribs were still bothering him.  “If you just want to give me a blanket, I’ll be fine.” Sherlock continued.

“Nonsense.” John said, handing the clothes to Sherlock.  “It’s no trouble at all.  Besides, who can sleep in denims?”

Sherlock looked down at the clothes in his hands, smoothing his fingers across the fabric before looking back up.  He looked incredibly vulnerable and very near to breaking.  “Thank you, John.  This is more than I could have ever asked of you.”

“It’s no big deal, Sherlock.  It’s just some old pajamas and a sofa.”

“It’s a lot more than that.” Sherlock replied softly.

“Well you’re welcome to whatever you want for as long as you need.” John said.  He cleared his throat, “Right, so towels are in the cupboard in the bathroom; feel free to take a shower, if you'd like.  I think there’s a new toothbrush in there too, if you want to use that.  My sister was supposed to come and visit but she never made it; she always forgets her toothbrush.” John said with a shrug.

“Thank you.” Sherlock said again.

“You’re welcome.  You go get ready for bed and I’ll get the couch made up for you.” John said.

Sherlock nodded and headed off toward the bathroom.  John heard the shower start up and quickly fitted a sheet over the couch, grabbing a spare pillow to put at the head and stacking a few blankets at the bottom.  He looked at it for a moment before deciding there wasn't much else he could do to make it more comfortable.

Sherlock was still in the shower, so he padded into the kitchen and started making two cups of tea, he figured if Sherlock didn’t want it he would just dump it, no harm done.  When the kettle clicked off, he made their tea adding a couple of spoons of sugar to Sherlock’s before picking up his own.

He turned around and very nearly spilled it on Sherlock because he’d come out to the kitchen and John hadn’t heard him.  “Sorry.” John said, taking a step back.  Sherlock’s hair was wet, his curls weighed down by the moisture; the clothes John had given him were big, the t-shirt hung crookedly on his slender frame and the pants were slung low low on his hips.  All of these things in conjunction with how positively exhausted he clearly was, made Sherlock look so young and vulnerable.  John cleared his throat, “I didn’t realize you’d come out of the bathroom.  I made you a cup of tea,” John said gesturing to the cup sitting on the table. “It’s fine if you don’t want it but I was already making one for myself so I thought I’d make one for you, too.”

Sherlock walked around John and picked it up off the table and took a sip, sighing appreciatively.

John grinned, “Right, well, the sofas made up so you’re free to go to bed whenever you’d like.  Glasses are in the cupboard over the sink, help yourself to whatever you need.  I’m just going to get washed up for bed.”  

Sherlock nodded and John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he pulled pajamas out of the drawer and opened the door to his bathroom.

John washed up quickly and brushed his teeth before slipping into his pajamas.  When he came back out, Sherlock was pulling the blankets from the bottom of the sofa to cover himself.  

“Ready for the lights to be turned off?” John asked.

“Sure.” Sherlock replied.  “But if you’re not ready to sleep, don’t feel you need to go to bed on my account.  I think I could sleep through a flood at this point.”

“I worked a sixteen hour shift at the hospital, Sherlock.  I’m ready for bed, don’t worry.” John said with a laugh.   He flipped off the lights and climbed into his bed.  The bed and sofa were situated directly across the room from one another and as his eyes adjusted to the dark he could just make out the shape of Sherlock’s form lying out across the sofa.  “Goodnight, Sherlock.” John said softly.

“Goodnight, John.”


	4. Chapter 4

_ Sherlock _

Sherlock hated dreams.  In reality, Sherlock was more than capable of controlling his emotional reactions to things.  He’d become accustomed to and even excelled at shutting down emotions through crystal clear logic.

In dreaming, however, his mind was far less clear, far less able to separate itself from pain and hurt.  In his dreams his body was not just a transport, but an entity of it’s own that could feel pain and his mind was acutely aware of the damage being inflicted on its counterpart.

He was having a dream in which there was a great deal of pain, a dream where everything was dark and everything was shadow.  Every bit of shadow, every part of the darkness caused the pain, shadows reached out and held him down, shadows struck him, the darkness burned every part of his skin, the shadows were everywhere; there was no escape.

He felt panic rising in his chest as he fought to free himself from the creatures' hold over him.  His body was slow and sluggish, his limbs seemed to be weighted down by lead as he fought to move.  His lungs burned against his inability to take deep enough breaths.  The pain was everywhere, it was everything, it was excruciating.

The worst part was that the shadows weren’t merely hurting him from outside his body; they were inside of him, too.  They were tearing him apart internally, wrapping themselves around his organs and squeezing, slithering between the cracks in his mind before expanding and breaking everything they touched apart into separate entities.

Sherlock wanted to scream, wanted to find some means of expelling the darkness but he couldn’t draw a deep enough breath.

Suddenly, something disrupted the shadows.  Someone was calling his name from far away.  He shuddered as he felt something else touching him more firmly, shaking him a bit.

His eyes flew open and he sat up, gasping for breath, his mind scrambling to place his surroundings.  He realized the thing touching him was John’s hand and Sherlock eyes followed the hand to John’s arm, up his shoulder, to rest on his face.  

John’s lips were moving and Sherlock fought through the fog surrounding his mind, trapping him in the darkness.

Finally John’s voice came into focus, “Are you alright?” the voice asked, tinged with concern.

Sherlock nodded, “Yes.” he whispered, his voice coming out rough and hoarse.  “I’m sorry I woke you.”

John let go of his shoulder and started to moved away and before Sherlock could stop himself he called out to John, “Don’t go.” and even he could hear the fear and the desperation colouring his voice. 

John was back at his side in an instant, sitting down on the sofa beside him, “I was just going to get you a glass of water.  I’m not going anywhere.” he said, his voice soft and warm.

Some distant part of Sherlock’s mind told him not to do this, not to get attached.  Some distant part of him warned him that he would be mortified by his behaviour tomorrow.  It told him that nothing good ever lasted.   _ All lives end.  All hearts are broken.  Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. _

Either the voice was too far away or Sherlock simply couldn’t bring himself to care about its objections at the moment.  He slumped over, resting his face in the crook of John’s neck and let himself cry.

John seemed surprised for a moment, but it didn’t last, his arms came up and wrapped themselves around Sherlock.  John leaned his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s head and stroked Sherlock’s hair, murmuring soft, soothing words that Sherlock’s brilliant mind couldn’t even begin to process.  Sherlock hadn’t cried since he was young but it seemed as though he couldn’t stop crying now.  His entire body was wracked with tremors as he sobbed against John’s chest.  

He wasn’t sure how long he wept but the last thought he had before he fell into a deep, blessedly dreamless sleep was that he’d found a way to expel the darkness after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really short, I know, but it just made the most sense for it to end here. The next chapter will be one from Sherlock's POV as well since this one is so petite.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers, I have been completely overwhelmed by your kindness and by your responses to this work. I hope it continues to speak to people and that everyone continues to enjoy it. Thank you so much for your encouragement and for your lovely comments.  
> Blessings. <3

_ Sherlock _

Sherlock was slow to wake the next morning but as he did there were two very contrasting pieces of information battling to be in the forefront of his mind.  The first was that he was profoundly uncomfortable.  His neck was at a strange angle and even before he moved it, he knew it was going to feel stiff and painful once he did.  His ribs, which hadn’t been allowed to fully heal, were positively aching as something hard and unyielding was digging into them.  His spine was crooked and his legs were scrunched up under him, asleep and tingling.

The second thing battling for center stage was a feeling that he wasn’t entirely familiar with, it was something that felt oddly light and precious curled inside his chest.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this feeling outside of the influence of drugs.  He was afraid to name it, lest it slip from his grasp, but the warmth radiating from the center of his chest felt oddly like happiness. 

Sherlock opened his eyes to find he’d fallen asleep on John.  The two of them were scrunched onto the bottom of the sofa, Sherlock’s head pillowed on John’s chest, John’s arms wrapped around him with his fingers curled through Sherlock’s hair.  The pain in his ribs, Sherlock realized was a product of John’s knee pressed against him.  

He stayed where he was for a moment longer, just soaking up whatever it was that John’s being seemed to radiate.  He wasn’t ready to go back to the real world and a piece of him wondered what it would be like to stay here.  What would it be like to stay in this place, in this moment, with someone who was good?  He let the ridiculous, light feeling spread through his being, indulging in the fantasy for just a moment.  

Steeling himself and taking a deep breath, he tried to pull away without disturbing John but it seemed John was quite intent on holding him in place while he slept.  John groaned and Sherlock looked up and watched as John’s eyes fluttered open. 

“Oh.” he said, his voice scratchy from sleep, “Sorry.” His arms unwrapped from Sherlock’s body and his hand left absently rubbed Sherlock's scalp once more before his fingers disentagled themselves.

“It’s not your fault.” Sherlock said, sitting up and stretching.  He winced a bit as his ribs pulled.

“Well, I tend to be a bit of a clinger to my bedmates.”

Sherlock looked over at him, cocking an eyebrow and watching in amusement as John flushed.

“Not that you and I.... Not that I’m... I didn’t mean that you....”

Sherlock laughed, and the sound surprised him, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed as an actual expression of amusement, of joy.  “It’s fine, John.  I know what you meant.”

John stood and he cleared his throat, “I’m going to use the loo, don’t go anywhere, yes?  Let me make you some breakfast.”

“If it’s not any trouble.” Sherlock said.

“It’s not!” John said with a grin that lit up his whole face as though Sherlock had just done something incredible rather than merely taking advantage of his kindness.  “Just stay here.  I’ll be right back.”

“Alright.” Sherlock said, holding his hands up in surrender, and watching as John bounded off toward the bathroom, reminding Sherlock of a puppy.  Sherlock stretched  and stood up, moving toward the kitchen and pulling a cup out of the cupboard to run himself a glass of water.  He drank it and very purposefully set it in the sink.

John was in the kitchen a moment later, “Right.” he said, the same ridiculous grin still stretched across his face.  He opened the refrigerator and peered inside, humming a bit.  “I’ve got a few eggs, sliced cheese, some milk, half a bottle of syrup, a couple of tomatoes, and an apple.  I’m not entirely sure what I can make, to be honest with you.”

“What about flour, baking powder, and a bit of cooking oil?”

“Ummm.” John opened one of the cupboards to the side of the fridge, “You’re in luck, I think.  One of my exes liked to bake.” John said, pulling the ingredients down out of the cupboard.

Sherlock snorted, “Alright, you make the coffee and I’ll make breakfast.  You do have coffee, don’t you?”

“Sherlock, I’m a doctor.  I work all sorts of ungodly shifts.  Of course I have coffee.” John said, “Although it’s terribly rude for me to make the guest make breakfast.”

“Fine.  We can do it together if you feel really convicted about it.  Make the coffee first and then we’ll go from there.”

“Bossy.” John said.  Sherlock flinched a bit, “I’m teasing, Sherlock.  It’s fine.  I’m a truly awful cook.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Sherlock said then snapped his mouth shut, worried that had been a rude, offensive thing to say.

But John merely laughed, “What was it, the way my left pinkie twitches when I hold a pen?”

Sherlock dumped some flour into the bowl followed by a bit of baking soda, “Your left pinkie twitches when you hold a pen?” Sherlock asked, surprised he hadn’t noticed that little tidbit.

“Not even a little.”

A surprised laugh bubbled out of Sherlock’s throat, “Then why did you say it did?”

“Because I haven’t the foggiest idea how you see the things you do and know the things you know.” John said.

“Can you get out the eggs and the milk?  We’re also going to need a frying pan.” Sherlock added.

“Done.” John said, pulling out the ingredient from the refrigerator, then “‘Scuse me.” he said, completely ignoring Sherlock’s personal space as he nudged him out of the way so he could pull out a frying pan of the drawer under the stove.  He had no idea why but his stomach flipped at John's proximity and the corners of his lips twitched up into a grin he couldn't seem to control.  “And done.” John said, handing the frying pan to Sherlock.  

Sherlock set it down on the stove and turned the burner on so the pan would be ready when he was.  “Do you have a whisk anywhere?” he asked as he began to systematically open drawers.

“Ummmmm.  Not sure what that is.” John answered.

Sherlock pulled out a fork, he could make that work. “Spatula?”

“Spatula.” John murmured.

“John, you were going to make me fried cheese last night, surely you know what a spatula is.”

“I know what it is!” John said with a laugh, “I was just trying to remember _where_ it is.”  He opened a drawer and produced an old, very worn out spatula whose plastic had melted in spots.  

“That is the most pathetic looking spatula I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes, well, it’s the only one I’ve got.” John said, hopping up on the counter beside where Sherlock was working seemingly so he could see Sherlock's face. “Come on.  Tell me how you knew I’d be a terrible cook.”

Sherlock looked over at him, he seemed surprisingly genuine about wanting to know.  He began pouring pancake batter into the pan, “You don’t have any normal semblance of ingredients in your refrigerator and cupboards that you would have if you cooked often.  The food you offered to make me last night was one of the first things a child learns to make.  The general state of your kitchen and your utensils indicates that they aren’t used for much more than the most basic of cooking excursions.  And then there’s the fact that you didn’t know what you could make with a couple of eggs, milk, flour, baking powder, and a bit of cooking oil.”

John laughed, “Alright, when you put it like that, perhaps it is one of the more obvious deductions you’ve made.”

The coffee maker made the satisfying spluttering sound as the last bit of water was forced through into the pot and John hopped down off the counter and started preparing their coffee, grabbing the sugar out of the cupboard and making Sherlock’s cup for him.  He handed it to him and watched as Sherlock flipped the pancakes over, perfectly browned on their backsides.

“So who taught you to cook?” John asked.

Sherlock took a sip and winced as it burned his tongue.  “Too bitter?” John asked.  “I can get you more sugar, or add some milk if you’d like.  You just didn’t use any milk at the hospital so I didn’t think to add it today.”

Sherlock waved him off, “No, it’s fine; perfect, actually.  Just too hot.” Sherlock set his coffee down and grabbed down a plate to stack the pancakes on.  “My father did.”

“Huh.” John said, pulling the butter and syrup out of the refrigerator.  “My dad couldn’t cook to save his life.”

“My mother was a Maths professor, brilliant in her own right, her work has actually been published and is highly acclaimed.  She was a bit busier than father was.  Don’t get me wrong she is lovely and she was a fantastic mother but father was always around.  He was there to do the cooking and the cleaning, there to help you get ready in the morning, and read stories at night.  He used to let me cook with him if I got up early enough.  To be honest, I just wanted to mix things together; I just wanted to see what would happen when different components were added to one another.  Father was always very indulgent of our eccentricities.” Sherlock said with fondness, “Always wanted us to explore and learn, encouraged us to be curious about the world around us.”

“So you have siblings, then?” John asked.

Sherlock swallowed down the bitterness that question invoked, “Yes.”  He piled more pancakes onto a second plate and took them to the counter where the bar stools were.

John picked up his coffee and Sherlock’s and followed him over, sitting down next to him.  “These look fantastic.” John said, pouring syrup over his and handing the bottle to Sherlock.

“Only time will tell.  I haven’t made them in years.”

John took a bite, and groaned, “Yeah, these are fantastic.” he said, taking another bite.  

Sherlock enjoyed his with somewhat less vigor, too wrapped up in watching John to pay much attention to how his food tasted.  But then again, even if he had been able to solely focus on the food in front of him he didn't think it could have produced the light feeling spinning in his chest the way watching John enjoying something he had made did.  

When they’d cleared their plates Sherlock drained the last of his coffee. “I should probably get out of your hair.” he said, even though he was loath to leave this place.

John looked over at him, “You don’t have to go.” he said softly.

“Well I have to leave some time.” Sherlock pointed out.

John chewed his lip contemplatively for a moment, “You don’t have to go.” he said again, more firmly this time.

Sherlock laughed, and even he could hear the bitterness in his voice. “And what am I supposed to do, live here in this tiny flat with you?”

“Sure.” John said with complete sincerity.  Sherlock let hope unfurl in his chest; could John possibly want Sherlock to stay?  “This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever thought of doing.” he murmured with a mad grin crossing his face.  

"And you thought of invading Afghanistan." Sherlock quipped.

"But that wasn't on my own." John said with a grin and a laugh. “The couch is yours for as long as you want it.”

“And that’s it?” Sherlock asked, staring at John completely baffled, his chest expanding further with the lightness he'd been feeling all morning.  He wondered if perhaps John felt the same sort of connection that Sherlock felt to him.  He wondered if by some miracle John might actually feel a modicum of fondness for him.  “You’re just going to let a man who is for all intents and purposes a  _ stranger _ come and live with you?  You going to let a man live with you when the only real thing you know about him is that he has a drug problem?  Just like that?  Do you take in strays often, Dr. Watson?”

“You aren’t a stray.” John said. "And that’s not the only thing I know about you." he added, his eyes sad and serious.  

Sherlock deflated, it was like a physical blow to his person. Worse even than physical pain, he'd endured many physical blows and yet this one left him more breathless.  The lovely warmth that had pervaded this entire morning was doused out with the cold splash of reality.  This wasn’t about Sherlock at all, not really.  It was about the fact that Sherlock was a  _ victim  _ in John's eyes.   It was about the fact that John Watson had a hero complex and saw Sherlock as someone in need of saving. “You’re right, it’s not the only thing you know about me.” he said evenly, standing up from his chair and marching over to pick up his clothes that were folded on the chair.  “You also know I’m in what you perceive to be an abusive relationship.  I’m not a stray, John.  I’m not a charity case.  And I'm certainly not a damsel in distress.  Let your Catholic guilt be soothed, you’ve done all you could to help the poor wayward soul.”  

“Sherlock!” John said, sounding completely lost about where this had gone wrong.

“You won’t have to see me again.” Sherlock said, as he threw open the door and stormed out of the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time.

It was a moment before he realized John was following him, “Sherlock, wait!  Can we talk about this?  Can you just talk to me for a minute?" he called after him.  "What just happened?”

Sherlock pushed open the door to the building and stormed out to the road, immediately flagging down a cab.  

“Sherlock!” John called again.  “Please.” he sounded almost as though he was begging, but Sherlock couldn’t imagine what he was begging for.

He climbed into the cab, “Goodbye, John.”

“Sherlock!” John called again as though shouting his name would make a difference.  He stood in the middle of the road, watching as Sherlock’s cab drove off, taking Sherlock back to his real life.


	6. Chapter 6

_John_

John Watson stood on the pavement watching where Sherlock’s car had driven off for longer than was strictly necessary.  What had just happened?  It felt like one minute he and Sherlock were fine, better than fine, even.  John had never had anyone who he got on with so easily.  He’d never had anyone with whom he was happy to merely sit in their presence without doing anything or saying anything.

When he'd woken up the night before to find Sherlock crying out in his sleep, John had merely meant to wake him.  His brain continued chanting the words  _professional distance_ at him in spite of the fact that there was nothing professional about the situation they'd made for themselves.  He was managing, by some miracle, until Sherlock had looked up at him, wide eyed and afraid and every bit of John's resolve had crumbled instantaneously, there was nothing he wouldn't do for Sherlock.  Then when he'd woken and found Sherlock staring up at him with such a look of contentment of his face, there was nothing he wouldn't have done to keep it there, to keep him there.  Nothing he wouldn't have done to keep him happy, keep him safe, keep him feeling  _loved_.

And if that wasn't a scary thought, John didn't know what was.  

Sherlock had somehow managed to bury himself in John’s heart, immerse himself in the spaces that John had forgotten what it had felt like to have filled.  For as many friends as John had, for as easy as it was for John to jump into relationships, it was not easy for John to trust people.  He’d been broken up with time and again because of what his partners called “commitment issues.”  His relationships always reached a certain point where John didn’t want the person to come any closer.  There were things John didn’t tell people and places in his heart he didn’t let people fill.  These were places he hadn’t let anyone into in years but Sherlock had slipped in past his defenses and firmly planted himself there.

It had been crazy and a risk, inviting Sherlock to live with him and there were a million reasons for Sherlock to say no, but John had wanted it.  And for one shining moment it had seemed like Sherlock had wanted it, too.  For a moment it had seemed as though Sherlock was going to say yes.  

But then he hadn’t and John was completely at a loss as to why he'd been so angry.  He trudged back up the stairs to his flat, wishing he’d gotten Sherlock’s mobile number so he could call him and apologize, even though he wasn’t sure what he would be apologizing for.  

John had started washing up the breakfast dishes when there was a knock at the door.  His heart leapt to his throat, thinking it could only be Sherlock, and he dashed over and opened the door, “I’m so glad...” he started, only to find himself face to face with a complete stranger.

“Might I come in Dr. Watson?” the man asked.  He was wearing an expensive suit, his hair parted and styled immaculately, and he had an umbrella slung over his arm.  

“Who are you?” John asked.  “How do you know my name?”

“A concerned party.” the man replied.  “And I know far more about you than that.  May I come in so that we can talk?”

John laughed, “You’re going to have to do better than that if you expect me to let you into my flat.”

The man sighed a heavy, put upon sigh, “My name is Mycroft Holmes.” he said.  “I’m Sherlock’s brother.”

John stared at him for a moment, before he took a step back from the door and let Mycroft in.  Mycroft looked around at the dishevelled state of the sofa and the bed, at the dishes in the kitchen, and John could only imagine what he saw.  John had been fine with Sherlock deducing his life but Mycroft seemed to be doing it as a means of seeing if John passed a test.

“Why are you here?” John asked.  

Mycroft turned to look John up and down.  “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock?” he asked in lieu of answering John's question.

John cleared his throat, his spine stiffening as he stood a bit straighter, “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”

Mycroft glared at him, “Dr. Watson, I merely wish to get my brother out of his current living situation.”

“So why don’t you get him out of it?” John asked.

Mycroft didn’t respond.  He looked down at the handle of his umbrella, spinning it in his hands.  Suddenly John could see the family resemblance in the flash of insecurity under the bravado of the characters they put on.

“You’ve tried.” John said, realization dawning.  “But Sherlock doesn’t want your help.”  The conversation they’d had in the car came back to him, _I’d rather die than acknowledge he is helping me in some way_.  “You’re the one he says runs the British Government.”

Mycroft’s head snapped up, “I don’t run the British Government.” he said through gritted teeth, as though this were a conversation he’d had to endure many times over.  “I hold a minor position in the British Government, for goodness sake.”  He took a deep breath, and seemingly started again.  Calmly, he said, “If you ask Sherlock to live with you, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money to help ease your way each month.”

“No.” John said, firmly.

“What?” Mycroft asked sounding befuddled.  “But I haven’t mentioned a figure yet.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Why?  You aren’t a wealthy man, Dr. Watson.  You’ve got a lot of debt from school and a sick mother, if I haven’t been misinformed.”

John felt his hackles rise and his hands balled into fists, “If Sherlock thought going back to that bastard was a better option than letting you help him, I want nothing to do with you.  And I certainly don’t want your money.”

Mycroft looked at him once more, clearly re-evaluating his assessment of John.  “I can see why he likes you.” he said softly.  He pulled out a business card, “Here’s my information if you need anything.” he scribbled something on the back of the card, “This is Sherlock’s mobile number.  You should call him.”

John warred with himself internally for a moment about whether to take the card or not.  There was nothing he longed for more than to reach out and take the card from Mycroft; there was nothing he would rather do than call Sherlock and ask him to come back.  “I can’t take that.” John finally said.

“Why ever not?” Mycroft asked.

“Because if Sherlock had wanted me to have his number he would have given it to me.  If Sherlock wanted to stay here, he would have.  He is more than capable of making his own decisions and if I take that choice away I am no better than the person he lives with now.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him for a moment before tucking that card in his pocket and pulling out a fresh business card.  “Please take this card with my information, none the less.  Sherlock may not understand it but I worry about him.  Constantly.  If you find yourself in need of my assistance, I would be only too happy to oblige.”

John reached out and took the card.  Mycroft nodded at him before he turned on his heel and left.

John tucked the card away and began cleaning up the kitchen once more, erasing any trace that Sherlock had ever been there at all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter the mysterious brother! I'll post a little bit at the end about where the name came from and his characterization if you're interested. (I must also thank my lovely friend dreamsindigita1 once more who has been so kind in listening to me ramble and helping me work through my crazy theories, she has been wonderful!)
> 
> Secondly, dearest readers, I must say once more that I have been positively blown away by all of the kind, wonderful responses to this work. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, I hope you continue enjoying this work and that it lives up to your hopes. :)
> 
> Blessings.

_ Sherlock _

Sherlock hated this place.  He hated the hard, grey, concrete walls; he hated the antiseptic stench that stung his nostrils; he hated the uncomfortable chairs he sat in as he waited.  But most of all, he hated that his brother was confined to this place day in and day out for the next fifteen years. 

The buzzer went off and Sherlock stood, moving through a security scan and then waiting as a man patted him down and checked for weapons.  Sherlock bit his tongue and held back an array of irritated retorts and deductions, he knew from experience they wouldn’t let him in if he seemed anything less than docile.  Eventually he made it through security and was shown to a booth where he sat down and stared through the bulletproof window waiting for his brother to sit on the opposite side.  

It wasn’t more than a few minutes when Wendell appeared in front of Sherlock, a smile on his face.  But Sherlock could see the small things that indicated all was not as well as he was trying to make it seem.  His face was more tired looking than Sherlock was used to, his hair had grown out a bit and he had full beard, he looked like he’d aged a decade.  The two of them used to be mistaken for twins, Sherlock was sure that would no longer be the case.

Wendell picked up the phone and waited as Sherlock did the same, “Hello, little brother.  I wasn’t expecting you today.”

Sherlock reached out and touched the glass and Wendell did the same, a soft, affectionate smile on his face, clearly remembering the many times Sherlock had reached out to hold his hand as a child when he was feeling overwhelmed.  “Is your head feeling a little loud today?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded, it was like there was a hive of bees buzzing around in his head; there was too much noise, too many thoughts, it was just too much.  This sort of noise often made it so Sherlock couldn’t or didn’t want to speak; he didn’t know where to start and he didn’t want to add to the noise.  But he felt better just hearing Wendell’s voice.  Wendell was always so calm, so collected and that peace bled over into Sherlock’s thoughts and emotions somehow in a way he didn’t entirely understand.

“So, you’ve met someone.” Wendell said casually, but Sherlock could hear the underlying hint of excitement.

His thoughts focused back in on John, the buzzing swelling into a concentrated stream. “What gave it away?” Sherlock asked, trying to see himself from outside his being to narrow in on what could have made it apparent.

“You’re wearing his pajamas.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks flush and he glanced down to see that he was indeed still wearing the pair of ill-fitting pajama trousers and t-shirt John had let him borrow.  “It’s not what you think.”  Sherlock mumbled, feeling a bit like an adolescent trying to hide something from his sibling.

Wendell hummed, “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.  It looks to me like there’s someone who’s treated you kindly, someone who you think means more to you than you do to them.”

Sherlock looked down at the table in front of him but didn’t say anything, which was perhaps more condemning than if he had.  

“Do you want to talk about it?” Wendell asked, his voice soft, making Sherlock’s chest positively ache.

Sherlock shook his head, picking at a crack on the counter in front of him.

“Do you want me to talk about it?” he asked, Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice and he was transported to when he was a child and Wendell intentionally deduced what was wrong with Sherlock incorrectly, he’d make up something crazy just to get Sherlock to laugh.

Sherlock felt a small smile tug at the corner of his lips, “No.”

“Are you sure?  It’s a super power of mine, as you well know.”

“I’m sure.” Sherlock said.  He shook his head, “Tell me about you.”

“About me?” Wendell laughed, “Well, I’ve made quite a few friends.  You wouldn’t believe how sympathetic some of the characters in here are.  I should have started in here in the first place if I wanted to start a revolution.”

“Don’t joke about that.” 

“I’m sorry.” Wendell said.  “I don’t mean it, you know that, Sherlock.”  
  
“I know.” Sherlock sighed, “Have you heard anything from the appeals committee?” 

“Not as of yet.” Wendell smiled at him, “It’s not as bad as you might imagine.  I get as many books as I’d like, I get to write as often as I’d like.  I’m not as easily bored as you are, little duck.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the small smile at the nickname.  “I don’t suppose you are.”

“So.” Wendell said, his voice turning serious once more, “Since you found this new person, have you left Victor?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.  “We said we weren’t going to talk about this.” 

“Yes well, I’m endlessly curious.”

Sherlock exhaled heavily through his nose, “Victor doesn’t pretend to be something he’s not.” 

Wendell raised an eyebrow at him.

“Well,” Sherlock amended, “He hurts people when he’s high but he is fully aware of that weakness.”

“And this fellow who presumably took you in after Victor beat you senseless is somehow not aware of his weaknesses?  And they somehow happen to be  _ worse _ than Victor’s?” he shook his head, “I somehow find that hard to believe.”

“I didn’t come here for a lecture.” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

“No, I don’t suppose you did, little duck.  But sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

“He  _ is  _ worse.” Sherlock said, feeling a bit petulant as he said it but his entire body ached with the truth of this statement.  It was infinitely worse for someone to pretend they cared, to lure him in with the false hope that perhaps they didn’t find him so incredibly annoying, so repulsive that they might actually want to spend time with him, they might actually want to live with him.  

“Ah.” Wendell murmured, “I see.”  Sherlock glared at him, but he continued on, “He gave you hope, this mystery man; he made you feel like he cared and somehow proved he didn’t.  How?”   


Sherlock sighed, “I thought we weren’t doing this.” he said a hint of pleading tinting his voice.

“Oh, come on.  You have to give me something to think about.  And if you hadn’t wanted to talk about it you wouldn’t have come here.”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you.” Sherlock replied stubbornly.  “Is that so unheard of?”

Wendell hummed a bit, “No.  But when you do come to visit without a reason you bring me a new knitting pattern and yarn.”

Sherlock knew he had been beaten, he hadn’t brought anything to feed his brother’s ridiculous addiction to knitting.  “He seemed like he cared.” Sherlock started softly, “But he didn’t, not really.  He just wanted to be a hero, just wanted to save someone.  It could have been anyone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!” Sherlock spat.  “Can you blame him?  Look at me!  I’m a freak.  No one wants  _ me. _ ” He tugged sharply at his curls to keep the wretched tears threatening to fall at bay.  “I can’t do anything right.” he whispered.

“Sherlock.” Wendell’s voice was firm, his tone telling Sherlock to stop, grounding Sherlock to the present; to the problems here and now, not the problems of the past.   _ Deleted. _ Sherlock’s mind reminded him firmly.  Those memories were thrown out, they were gone and they could never come back.

“I wouldn’t be so sure that it isn’t about you.” Wendell said reasonably, “People are so willing and ready to receive talented people with open arms, but people so rarely know what to do with genius in it's many forms.  Maybe this John fellow is just an exception.”

Sherlock was about to respond but his mind replayed the last bit of what Wendell had said in his mind once more, “I never said his name was John.” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at him.

Wendell’s cheeks flushed and he looked down at the booth, Sherlock could practically see his mind whirring to come up with a lie fast enough to cover his slip up.

“Mycroft talked to you, didn’t he?” Sherlock said.  “I can’t believe you let him in to see you!  After all he did.  How could you?”

“Sherlock, be reasonable.  He’s worried about you.”

“Be reasonable?!” Sherlock fumed.  “You’re joking.  How can you sit there so calmly as though he’s done nothing wrong?” Sherlock asked gesturing at Wendell, hoping his gesture said all the words he couldn’t.  How could he sit there and pretend Mycroft wasn’t the reason he was sitting behind bars, wearing the same outfit day in and day out, trapped away from his family, away from his friends, while his brilliant mind  _ rotted _ in prison?

“How many times do we have to have this conversation, Sherlock?” Wendell said wearily.  “Mycroft was doing what he thought was right, and that is all anyone can ask of themselves.   __If anything, you should applaud the courage it took Mycroft to act rather than waiting and simply reacting when the time came.”

“Mycroft was only doing what he thought would give him the most power.” Sherlock seethed.  “And he didn’t care who he had to step on to get there.”

“And so what if that’s true?” Wendell said.  “Who does it help to think that way?  Even _if_ Mycroft only did it for power, how does it help me to believe that?  How does it help you to believe that?”  He shook his head, “It only fuels bitterness and hatred.  Do you want the truth, Sherlock?  This place is awful, this is without a doubt the worst thing that has ever happened to me.  But blaming  my brother won’t make me feel better and it’s not making you feel better, either.  It’s trapping you with someone who is hurting you because you are too stubborn to accept help from someone who you think has wronged you.”

“He has!” Sherlock retorted.

“We’re human, hurting people is what we do, Sherlock.  And I understand if you aren’t ready to forgive him yet, he’s not ready to forgive himself either but I refuse to let you shame me for speaking to my brother.  He’s worried about you and so am I.”

“Well you needn’t be.” Sherlock said, as he moved to hang the phone back up.

“Sherlock, don’t!” Wendell called out, a desperate edge to his voice.  “That’s not fair and you know it.”

The trouble was that Sherlock did know it, hanging up the phone now and walking out would leave Wendell feeling miserable with no possible way to resolve it.  With a sigh Sherlock sat back down and held the phone back to his ear.

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock grumbled.  

Wendell was quiet for a moment before asking, “Do you remember why we started calling you little duck?” 

Sherlock shook his head, his brothers and parents had called him that intermittently for as long as he could remember.

“I’m not surprised, you were quite young when mummy first called you little duck.  You couldn’t have been more than three.” he mused.  “It was because you were constantly following Mycroft and me around.  You would get into whatever sort of mischief we were getting into, whatever one of us did you weren’t more than a few steps behind doing the same.  You spent your entire childhood trying to be as smart as you thought Mycroft was and trying to have as wild an imagination as you thought I did.  It was all well and good, you following in our footsteps.  You take on as many classes in a semester as Mycroft ever did, you try to put on your hard shell of an exterior to keep the world from hurting you the way Mycroft does.  You followed me to Cambridge and you became a composer, you're exceptionally creative in your own right.  You’re brilliant Sherlock, you can do so many things, you have so much potential.  But the problem now is that both of us have let you down, neither of us has become something you want to be.”

Sherlock swallowed, “I didn’t do any of those things because it’s what you and Mycroft did.” 

Wendell hummed, “Maybe not consciously.  But the point remains, Sherlock, I think it’s high time you stopped being the little duck who looks for someone to follow.  It’s time to step out of the path of least resistance and  _ do something _ .  Make something of yourself before it’s too late, be something that only you can be.  There is nothing as common as the desire to be something remarkable; you already are remarkable, Sherlock.  Use your incredible mind to change the world into what you want it to be.  If you want the truth, it's all Mycroft is trying to do now and it's the only thing I've ever tried to do."

Sherlock nodded, but couldn’t find any words to say, his head was too full again.  The thoughts were too loud again.

“Sorry.  I know you said you weren’t here for a lecture, but old habits die hard as they say.  I just hate to see you trapped like you are, you’re imprisoned far more securely than I could ever be behind these bars.”  Wendell reached out and pressed his palm against the glass and Sherlock did the same.  “I love you.”

“Love you too.” Sherlock mumbled.

Wendell glanced at a clock, “Right, your hour is up, you better get going.”

Sherlock nodded, “See you soon.”

“See you soon.” Wendell repeated and waited as Sherlock hung up the phone and headed back out of the visitation area.  Sherlock turned and waved at Wendell once more; he waved back, watching until Sherlock left.  Sherlock often found himself wondering how long Wendell stood there, just watching after one of them had left and he felt the sadness and anger grip him tighter in the pit of his stomach at the thought of leaving his brother there.

When Sherlock stepped outside he was overwhelmed with the knowledge that nothing had changed.  Wendell’s words had been beautiful and encouraging, but it’s all they were; words.  Nothing had changed in the hour since Sherlock had gone in to visit his brother; the problems hadn’t solved themselves, he still didn’t have any choices.  Sherlock was still alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name Wendell came from a bit of reading I'd been doing about Sherlock Holmes (regrettably, I can't find the article to save my life; if anyone knows what I'm talking about please feel free to add it in a comment and I will gladly link it.). The man the name belonged to was Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.; he was an American physician, poet, professor, and author who lived from 1809-1894. The article I was reading sited him as one of the original inspirations for the character of Sherlock Holmes, he was a tiny paragraph but it got my brain spinning. The more I dug into his life the more I liked him so I adapted the man into a character in this story; some of the things he says are very near to some of the quotes you can find on BrainyQuote and similar search engines. 
> 
> The other major contributor shaping Wendell's character, for those who find themselves curious, was birth order psychology. I think when you look at the personality traits of siblings Mycroft falls pretty firmly into the eldest child category while Sherlock is a poster child for the youngest. So I dusted off my knowledge of birth-order traits and tried to mold Wendell into middle child traits as well. 
> 
> I hope you are as delighted by his character as I am. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all once again from the very bottom of my heart for your kind comments and support of this work. You are all lovely, sweet people. I hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Blessings! <3
> 
> Sorry to the people who are subscribed to this work for the two emails about the updated chapter... Somehow I posted it before I'd finished editing!

_John_

It would be another three weeks before John saw Sherlock again.  In those three weeks, which had seemed to drag out endlessly, he’d grown to hate his flat.  Every time he went home it felt empty, it felt like something was missing.  Which was completely ludicrous, of course; how could something be missing when it hadn’t really been there in the first place?  He was driving himself mad with the what-if’s that seemed to go hand-in-hand with his thoughts of Sherlock.  

So he'd thrown himself into his work. Not that it was much of a change, he already worked more than most people he knew but he pushed himself even harder so that by the end of the day he was completely worn out and could fall into a dreamless sleep.  He’d picked up so many shifts that he’d only had three days off in the past three weeks; it had worked out perfectly, the three days he’d had off had been spent sleeping and doing laundry, and pointedly not thinking about the emptiness of his flat.  

Unfortunately, Sarah seemed to have caught on and had drawn the line.  She’d told him, in no uncertain terms, that he needed to take the next two days off.  She’d given him quite a lecture about not burning himself out and about how unhealthy it was for him to live this way.  He was sure there had been more but he hadn’t been able to listen because he couldn’t stop thinking about how empty his flat felt when he had time to think about it.

He hadn't even lasted one day before he felt like he was going out of his mind.  He’d tried everything from cleaning, to reading, to blasting the telly, to singing at the top of his lungs to keep his mind occupied but nothing seemed to help.  He simply couldn’t bear to be in the all encompassing silence and the emptiness that had seemed to become it’s own entity.  So he did the only thing that made sense, he got dressed and went out to the loudest place he could think of; a nightclub.

There was one John hadn’t been to since he was in Uni, but when he arrived he was pleased to find it hadn’t changed a bit since the last time he’d been there.  It was a club under an old Railway and there were three things that John loved about this nightclub in particular.  First it was always packed, there were people everywhere of all different ethnicities and backgrounds but everyone was there for the same thing.  Second, the music was always loud enough to rattle your bones, in John's current predicament this was exactly what he was looking for.  And third, you had absolutely no trouble picking up an attractive stranger.  

Based solely on fact number three, John wasn’t sure what it was that was making it so difficult to pull someone this evening.  He’d been hit on by several fit blokes and somewhere in the back of his mind his self from Uni was kicking him for not taking them up on their offers.  Realistically, he couldn’t fathom what was stopping him.  None of the men hitting on him expected more than a casual, one night stand where they had some great sex and went home feeling content.  But something happened each time one of the blokes asked John if he wanted to come home with them and he found himself smiling and thanking them for the offer but declining.

After the sixth bloke invited him back to his flat and John found himself politely rejecting him, he went over to the bar to order a drink.  He hoped a bit of alcohol might loosen him up a bit and allow him to have some fun, the prospect of going home alone to an empty flat was not a pleasant one.

When he got closer to the bar he overheard one of the customers turning away from the bar and cursing at the bartender, who had his back turned, clearly preparing a drink for someone else.  “Easy, mate.” John said.

“Oh, piss off.” the man said as he brushed past John.

John shrugged and stepped up to the bar, waiting patiently until the man turned around to help him.  He was looking around the club when the bartender stepped up to him but turned his head when the man was in front of him.  His jaw dropped in surprise before he stuttered out, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed under John’s surprised gaze.  John couldn’t help but take in Sherlock’s appearance, his mind attempting to fill in the gaps to understand what Sherlock was doing working in this bar, of all places.  His curls were disheveled, the sleeves of the button up shirt John presumed was his uniform were rolled up to his forearm, sweat beaded on his forehead.  But in spite of his disheveled state, there was something in his eyes that looked happier, something that looked healthier and John was glad to see it.  

It seemed Sherlock was similarly surprised, his eyes took in John's appearance calculatingly; John wondered what Sherlock could deduce just from looking at him.  John was about to say something more, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what, when a man further down the bar pounded his glass on the counter in a neanderthal request for more.

John gestured to the man, “Go ahead, I don’t mind waiting a couple of minutes.” he shouted above the din.

Sherlock gave him a small, grateful smile and John felt his stomach flutter.  John watched his efficient movements as he took the glass from the man and mixed his drink before handing it back and accepting his money.  Then he moved back down to the end of the bar where John was standing, “What are you having?” Sherlock asked.

John stared at him for a moment before remembering he had in fact come over here for a drink, “Uhh." John murmured inelegantly, his mind blanking on every drink he knew.  "What do you recommend?”

“Technically, I’m supposed to try to sell you the Remy Martin Cognac.” Sherlock informed him, “But you don’t really seem to be the type.  Just a minute.”  He moved over and poured a glass of beer, which if John wasn’t mistaken was Courage Best, one of his favourites, and then filled two shot glasses with whiskey before carrying them back and setting one of the shots and the beer in front of John.  “Whiskey first.” he said.

John picked up the shot and swallowed it down, relishing the burn as it worked it’s way down the back of his throat and warmed his belly.  “Who’s the other one for?” John asked, gesturing to the shot still in Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock smirked at him, “Me, of course.” he said, tipping the shot back.  “Enjoy your beer, sir.” Sherlock said with a cheeky grin, before turning and moving to help other guests.

John stayed at the bar, sipping his beer and watching Sherlock work with the other patrons.  He was good at this sort of thing, he was quick on his feet and knew when to cut people off, and everyone seemed pleased with the drinks he made them.  But John still couldn’t shake his surprise that Sherlock was working in a bar, he didn’t seem the type.  John wondered how long Sherlock had worked here, what had driven him to work here in the first place.  Maybe Sherlock had left the person he'd been living with and was using the money he made here to pay for his own flat.

When John was getting down to the dregs of his beer Sherlock came over once again and took his glass from him.  His fingers dragged along John’s palm and John was so preoccupied with the touch he hardly noticed that Sherlock was slipping a piece of paper in his palm.  Sherlock rolled his eyes but had a grin on his face as he walked away.

John unfolded the paper and read the words: _The man at the end of the bar, blonde, blue eyes, approximately 220 lbs. Flirt with him._

John looked up from the note and raised an eyebrow skeptically at Sherlock, waiting for him to turn and look at him.  When he did, Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him and nodded toward the man at the other end of the bar.

John glared at him and Sherlock rolled his eyes, he poured another shot and brought it over to John.

“Seriously?” John hissed at him.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, “It is of the utmost importance.  I’ll explain later.”

He strode back across the bar, whipping together another drink for the man who had a bad habit of pounding his glass against the bar like a toddler in lieu of using his words.  “Right.” John murmured, tossing back the second shot Sherlock had brought him before moving toward the man at the end of the bar.  

The man was tall and well built, with sandy blonde hair, and sharp blue eyes; he was attractive enough but there was something about him that John wasn't too keen on.  But then again, John hadn't been particularly keen on anyone this evening.   _Sherlock_ his treacherous mind pointed out, he nudged that thought away.  What could hitting on this bloke hurt?  If it was as important to Sherlock as he had made it seem when they'd spoken a few minutes ago, then he would do it.  He watched as the man picked up his drink and started to turn, timing it perfectly so when he turned he crashed into John and spilled his drink all over him.

“Fuck!” John exclaimed, as the cold, sticky liquid drenched his shirt.

“Oh!” the man said, grabbing napkins and pressing them to John shirt, “I’m so sorry.  How incredibly clumsy of me.”

John glared down angrily at his shirt but let his face lighten as he looked at the man before him.  In truth it was a trick that had been used on him in the past, so he knew how effective those soft, flirty eyes could be.  “That’s all right.” he said as he took the napkins out of the man’s hand and started drying his own shirt, “I wasn’t watching where I was going.  Let me buy you a drink?” John offered with a friendly smile.

“Shouldn’t I be the one buying you a drink?” the man asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t say no if you offered.” John replied, an easy grin painting his face.

The man grinned back and led him over to the bar, “Excuse me.” he called out at Sherlock and John cringed.  He hated it when people treated bar staff or wait staff like they were the only person who needed their server’s attention.  Sherlock was surprisingly polite about it, turning to the man and tsking at the drink spilled on John’s shirt before making up a new mixed drink for the stranger and handing John a beer.  

“Thanks.” the man said, paying for both of the drinks before turning back to John.  “I’m Michael, by the way.”

“John.” he said, reaching out to shake Michael’s hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, John.  I really am sorry about your shirt.”

John smiled, “It’s not the first time someone’s dumped their drink on me just to get me to have a drink with them.” he said, winking at Michael as he took a pull of his beer.

“I wasn’t!” he protested.

John laughed, “I know, usually when it’s intentional there’s less drink in the glass.”

Michael smiled and leaned in closer to John, “Although, if I had seen you there I might have introduced myself anyway.”

John ran his fingers lightly up and down Michael’s arm, “Is that so?”

Michael nodded, watching as though enraptured as John’s fingers slid up and down his arm.  Then he looked up at John, “What do you do, John?”

“I’m a doctor.” John said with a smile, it was a line that never failed; there was something about being a doctor that meant people instantly liked and trusted you.  “And what do you do?” John asked, sipping his drink.

“I’m a estate agent.” Michael said, flashing a grin.  “Are you in the market for a new flat?”

“Hmmm.  Unfortunately, no.  I could get used to seeing you a little more often.” John said.

Michael looked down and then back up at John through his eyelashes, “Do you want to get out of here?”

John glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and Sherlock nodded at him.   _Seriously?  Was Sherlock just trying to set him up with some random bloke?_  “Sure.” John said, smiling at him again.  “My flat's not too far from here.”

“Ummm.  I just have this weird thing about going back to other people’s flats.  Could we maybe go back to mine?”  

This defeated the entire point of John's evening, he’d come out specifically to find someone to fill his flat after all, but somewhere along the way he'd stopped thinking about himself and started thinking about Sherlock instead.  He smiled at Michael, "Sure." he said.  They walked outside and Michael hailed a cab, pulling John in and cozying up to him once they were safely ensconced inside.

John was really beginning to think that Sherlock had just set him up on a terrible date simply to get him out of the club when he heard his mobile go off.  “Sorry.” John said, pulling his mobile out of his back pocket, “Probably just work.”  The text was from an unknown number but he opened it anyway:

**_Don’t go into the kitchen. -SH_ **

The message had to be from Sherlock, he was the only person John could think of with the initials SH, but what was he talking about?This was getting more and more surreal by the moment.  Who cares about a bloody kitchen?  Michael rubbed his hand up and down John’s thigh and John was yanked back to the present.  “Sorry about that.” John said, smiling at him again.  “Where were we?” he leaned in toward Michael once more, preparing to press his lips against this stranger’s who was not at all whom John had envisioned picking up tonight.  

His text alert went off again, John groaned, “I’m sorry.  Last one I promise, it’s my supervisor Sarah."  He wasn't quite sure why he was lying to him, but there was something that made him slightly wary of Michael.  "I’ll put my phone on silent after this, I swear.” John said smiling and pressing a quick peck to Michael’s lips.

Michael laughed, “It’s fine.  You’re a doctor it’s probably something important about helping someone.” he said waving his hand vaguely.

“The only person I’m interested in helping tonight is you.” John said with a lascivious grin.  It was a terrible line but it seemed to do the job for Michael who smiled back and drew his fingers further up John’s thigh and trailing them closer to his crotch.  

John opened the text message from Sherlock, **_Leave the door unlocked if convenient.-SH_ ** _What the hell was this?_  John wondered if he’d somehow gotten himself involved in some kinky three way with this Michael bloke and Sherlock.  He had to admit the idea wasn’t entirely without appeal.

He was about to stuff his phone back into his pocket when his phone went off again, **_If inconvenient, leave it unlocked anyway.-SH_**  he rolled his eyes and turned to face Michael once again.

“We’re here.” Michael said as the cab pulled up in front of a lavish apartment building.  Michael paid the cabbie and they climbed out, John followed Michael into the elevator where Michael leaned in and pressed his chest against John’s, running his fingers lightly over his jaw and down his neck.  “I have such plans for you tonight, Doctor.” he said with a smile before running his fingers down the line of buttons on John’s shirt and fiddling with John’s belt buckle.

The elevator came to a stop and John followed him out of the elevator, running his hand up and down Michael’s spine as he unlocked the door.  They went inside and Michael relocked the door before tossing his keys down onto the table.  The flat was impeccably tidy with new looking furniture and modern art adorning the walls.  “Your flat is lovely.” John commented.

Michael looked around, “I suppose it is.” he said with a grin before saying, “Come on into the kitchen I’ll get you a drink.”

John let him get past the doorway in the kitchen before backtracking and unlocking the front door for Sherlock and calling out, “I’m not really thirsty.” as he did to cover up the sound of the tumbler rotating in the door.  Michael came back out a moment later, clearly looking for John and John grabbed his hand and tugged Michael against him, pressing his lips to Michael’s.  Michael kissed him back for a moment and John thought it was a passable kiss, they might not have had the best chemistry but he could make this work.  Michael pressed him back against the wall, grinding his thigh against John’s half hard cock and he changed his mind, it had been a while, he could definitely make this work.

Everything was going swimmingly, Michael had grabbed John's wrists with his left hand and pinned them to the wall above his head as he snogged him.  He was pressed flush against John, pressing his back against the wall when his other hand slipped down John's body.  John assumed he preparing to unzip his trousers or grab a condom out of his wallet.  What John was not expecting, however, was the knife Michael pulled out of his back pocket and ran it along his cheek.

“What the hell?” John asked as Michael patted his cheek with the flat of the knife.  What in the world had Sherlock gotten him into?

“Sorry, John.” Michael said, drawing the knife down along the row of buttons on John’s shirt.  “It’s nothing personal.” his eyes glinted dangerously as he took in John’s face.

Whatever it was that Michael was planning to do, John wasn't about to just let it happen to him without a fight.  He wrapped his leg around one of Michael’s and knocked him off balance and unto the floor.  The two of them scuffled about and John landed some solid blows before Michael finally pinned John to the floor straddling his chest, keeping his arms trapped above his head.  “Oooh.  I look forward to killing you.  I do so enjoy the feisty ones.” Michael said, a manic grin on his face.

John struggled against his hold again, thrashing about and kicking his legs desperately but he was well and truly pinned to the floor.  He was quite pissed off, in part at Michael but mostly at Sherlock for getting him into this mess to begin with, with absolutely no warning.  

The door flew open just as Michael pressed the blade of his knife to John’s throat, he nicked him slightly as he turned in surprise.  “Michael Bordeaux," Sherlock's voice boomed out, "The police are on their way for your arrest.  Let’s not add another murder to your list.  Stand up, and let’s go quietly.”

Michael did in fact stand up but it was only to shove Sherlock out of his way and dash out of the room.  Sherlock pulled John up and grinned at him before taking off down the hall after Michael.  John shook his head but couldn't keep the grin off his face as took off after Sherlock and Michael the Murderer.  

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do!” John shouted at Sherlock.

“Later!” Sherlock called over his shoulder as they raced through the halls and to the stairwell.  They followed Michael down the stairs and Michael was just pushing open the door to get outside when John caught up and tackled him to the ground.  The two of them struggled for a moment but John caught his hands behind his back and pressed his knee into the small of Michael’s back to pin him there, perhaps handling him a bit more roughly than was strictly necessary.

He glanced up when he heard Sherlock say “Ah.  Lestrade.  Impeccable timing.”

A man with dark hair greying at the temples glared at Sherlock for a moment before marching over to where John and Michael were on the ground and putting the man in handcuffs.  “You can let go now.” he told John, and John obeyed, moving over to stand at Sherlock’s side.  

The detective told Michael he was under arrest and told him his rights as he put him into the back of the car before turned to Sherlock, “You’re insane.  Do you know that?” he growled at him.  “You could have gotten yourself killed.  I told you to bloody well leave this alone.”  Then he looked at John, “And who’s this?”

“He’s with me.” Sherlock said, waving his hand in John’s direction.  “How was this insanity?  We caught your serial killer, did we not?”

“You intentionally lured and baited a murderer, Sherlock.  Without backup.” the detective said shaking his head.

“I had backup, I had John.” Sherlock said with a shrug.

John felt his chest warm slightly at the praise and stepped forward when Lestrade looked at him again and held out his hand to John, “Greg Lestrade.”

“John Watson.” John said, taking his hand with a nod.

“I’m going to need a testimony from both of you lunatics.”

“Tedious.” Sherlock said with a sigh.

“Yes well, if you don’t want to be part of the paperwork, don’t involve yourself with murderers.”

“If I hadn’t some person would be dead tonight.” Sherlock snarked.

“Paperwork is the price you pay for being a hero.” Lestrade said, glancing back at the car.  He rubbed the back of his neck in a tired gesture, “Why don’t you two take a cab to the yard and I’ll catch up with you there.”

Sherlock begrudgingly nodded and John followed him to the main road where Sherlock hailed a cab.  When they climbed in John's mind was whirring with questions, he had so many things he wanted to ask Sherlock but the one that came out was, “So you work in that club?”

Sherlock snorted, “That's the question you want to lead with?" he shook his head, a tiny grin on his lips, "Hardly.  I just convinced the manager to let me work a few shifts until this murderer was caught.  It wasn’t too challenging, really, I know a good deal about alcohol.  Additionally, one of his bartenders had been murdered a few weeks ago so he was short a bartender.  And I suppose he had a vested interest in seeing his bartender's murderer caught, everyone seemed to have been quite fond of him.”

“How did you know Michael was the killer?” John asked curiously.

Sherlock glanced over at John and said, “First, the murderer had to be a estate agent, all of the places he was murdering people in where flats or houses that were on the market to be sold.  The only people who would have had the key would be the current owners trying to sell their property and their estate agents.  Obviously, the owners of each flat where the murders were committed were different so the only person remaining is the estate agent.  The trouble came when it was different estate agent for each flat, as well.  But who else might you give a key to if you were looking to sell your flat?”

“A buyer’s estate agent.” John said, with dawning comprehension.

“Exactly.” Sherlock said.  “So I attempted to work backward from the other estate agents but Michael was actually rather clever.  He'd made copies of all of the keys and in every instance except one he wasn't the last estate agent to borrow the key from the seller's estate agent.  Ultimately, there was nothing linking him to the murders any more than any other estate agent in the area."

"So how did you figure out it was him?" John asked.

"There was another similarity between the victims that the Met had been overlooked.  I should add that if they had actually let me see the bodies I could have told them the instant I saw them.  They were all gay.  And if you traced their bank statements back to the night of their murder," he glanced at John, "Don’t ask me how I got those.” he added with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “They all lead to that nightclub.”

“Brilliant.” John said with a smile.

Sherlock smiled back at him before continuing, “Of course, I wasn’t sure it was him until he picked you up.”  He looked down at his lap, “My original intention was to get him to take me home so I could prove he was guilty.  But I overlooked a small detail which made me not fit the archetype of what he was looking for in a victim.”

“What was that?” John asked.

“All of the people he was murdering were in professions that helped people.  Alan Smith who worked at the the bar was also a school teacher, George Bane was a nurse, Mark Gregson worked as a pro bono attorney for underprivileged clients, Benjamin Forsythe was a hospice worker, and Matthew Stetson was a police officer.  I realized my error when I was watching everyone hit on Michael, the only question he consistently asked was what each person did for a living.  After that question was answered he sent the person on their way.”  Sherlock shrugged, “And then you came along and I knew I could catch the murderer because you were just his type.”

“So in conclusion," John said, "I just snogged a murderer.”

“Technically, he was a serial killer and a sociopath.” Sherlock said, looking over at John.  They stared at one another for a moment before bursting into giggles.  

“We shouldn’t laugh.” John said, shaking his head, “It’s indecent.”

Sherlock grinned at him, “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Yes well, next time I’ll have to insist you tell me when I’m being used as bait.” John said, shaking his head at how ill-prepared he had been.

“Next time?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, assuming you’d want me to help again.” John said, leaving off the words _assuming you don’t disappear_ _again_ and feeling oddly hopeful that Sherlock would want his helpin the future.  “Listen, Sherlock," he started, finally saying the words he'd wanted to since the first time he'd seen Sherlock tonight, "about the last time I saw you-”

“We’re here.” Sherlock interrupted him, climbing out of the car as it rolled to a stop.  

“I’m sorry.” John finished to thin air.

“That’ll be £18.” the driver said.

“Right.” John said.  “I should be making that ruddy detective pay your fee.” he grumbled as he handed the man the money and climbed out of the car.  

He followed Sherlock into the building feeling oddly grateful that his night had resulted in almost being murdered rather than a brilliant shag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to DaisyFairy who Britpicked a few things in this chapter to help make it more believable! As ever this work is not beta'd or britpicked so feedback is always appreciated! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dearest readers, please forgive me for the appalling delay in posting this chapter. My life has been rather stressful and chaotic lately and I just haven't had very much time at all to devote to this work. I have a few days off in a row, so I will do my best to post at least a few chapters over the next two days. 
> 
> As ever, thank you all for your sweet comments and encouragement; I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

_Sherlock_

_Three Weeks Ago_

_Sherlock had returned to his flat in quite a state after his visit with Wendell.  Talking to Wendell wasn’t always helpful; in fact it often made things harder, but it never failed to show Sherlock when he was headed in the wrong direction.  And headed in the wrong direction he certainly seemed to be.  Wendell always seemed to give him an invaluable outside perspective, he gave Sherlock a means of looking at his life as though he was a third party and often that was all he needed to see how completely ridiculous he was being._

_Sherlock worried his thumbnail with his teeth as he walked up the stairs to the flat, quite lost in his thoughts and thereby rather oblivious to the sounds coming from within.  He walked through the door and Victor was at his side a moment later._

_“Are you alright?” he asked, sounding desperate and a bit manic._

_Sherlock pulled his arm out of Victor’s grasp and moved toward the living room.  “I’m fine.” he said waving him off._

_“Where have you been?”_

_“What?” Sherlock snapped, still focused on replaying his conversation with Wendell in his mind._

_“Where. Have. You. Been?” he asked slowly, through gritted teeth._

_“Why does it matter?”_

_“Because we bloody well live together and I want to know where my boyfriend spent the night when it wasn’t my bed.” Victor replied._

_Sherlock sat down on the sofa and rubbed his eyes, there were so many things wrong with that sentence.  So many things that Sherlock absolutely abhorred; he wasn't his boyfriend (he hated how pedestrian that word was), he wasn’t property, he didn’t owe any sort of explanation to Victor.  Yet he found himself giving one, none the less.  What was the point in arguing over it?  “I slept on a friend’s sofa.” He said simply, it was essentially the truth._

_“A friend.” Victor sneered at him disbelievingly._

_Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to Victor’s face at his tone.  He was surprised, he’d never heard that tone when Victor wasn’t high, but there were no signs that Victor was high apart from the voice.  It was a tone of voice that usually prefaced violence.  Sherlock felt his entire body tense, ready to run at any second._

_“What_ friend _?”  Victor snarled._

_“Why are you saying the word friend in that inflection?  Why does it matter?” Sherlock asked.  He knew he should probably just answer the question but he didn’t understand where this line of questioning was going.  What did it matter which friend?  It could have been any of his classmates from University, it could have been Mycroft as far as Victor knew._

_“Because you don’t have friends.” he spat the word once more.  “No one gives a rat’s arse about you because you’re a freak.  Everyone hates you.  You should hear how people talk about you, you’re a disgrace.” He paused, his face red, he was clearly fuming.  “So tell me where you were last night.  Who are you fucking?”_

_Sherlock couldn’t find words, which was unsurprising as he’d spent the entire morning struggling with how loud his mind was, but his lack of words was for a different reason entirely now.  This was how Victor saw him?  He saw him as a social pariah who was completely hopeless, whose only worth was as a body to have intercourse with?_

_There had been many offensive and cruel ways in which people had seen him in the past.  Many people had opportunistically taken advantage of Sherlock for his mind but this was an entirely new low.  There was something about being used for your mind that was still mildly flattering; at least in that case people were recognizing that you’re clever.  But this.  This was something else entirely, there was nothing which could be misconstrued as flattering about this._

_Enough.  Sherlock had had enough.  He had been offended by John's attempt at saving him and then again when Wendell had merely implied it.  But he absolutely refused to sit here and listen to Victor imply that he was saving Sherlock from a world that didn’t accept him._

_He didn’t need anyone to save him, he could save himself._

_He stood up from the sofa and moved to the bedroom without another word and began packing his things in a duffle bag.  There wasn’t much for him to pack, truth be told, some clothes and a few books._

_“What are you doing?” Victor asked, the anger gone from his tone, replaced by the bit of desperate concern once more._

_“I’m leaving.” Sherlock said simply, his voice devoid of any trace of emotion._

_"Babe, come on.  Don't be ridiculous.  I love you." Victor said._

_Sherlock felt himself bristle at the words; he hated those three stupid, meaningless words.  He tossed a notebook into his bag, but said nothing in response._

_“You’re not leaving.” Victor said.  “Not really.  Where would you possibly go?  Back to live in a dorm where people hate you?  Or to live with the bloke who fucked you last night?  Do you think he actually cares about you?" he snorted.  "He doesn’t, he probably just saw you as an easy fuck and picked you up.  This is the best relationship you could ever have.”_

_Sherlock picked his bag off the bed and moved toward the door, trying and failing to keep the words from soaking in._

_Victor grabbed his arm and spun him around, “You don’t have anywhere to go.  I’m the only choice you have.”_

_Sherlock looked down at where Victor’s fingers were digging into his arm hard enough to leave bruises.  What were a few more bruises if they were the last he’d receive from him?  “Let go.” Sherlock said softly but firmly.  “You aren’t the only choice I have, you never were.” he shook his head, “I choose myself.”_

_Victor let go of Sherlock’s arm, “You’ll be back.”_

_Sherlock turned, “I’d rather die.” he called out and he walked out the door, never to return again._

 

John cleared his throat and Sherlock snapped back to the present, he looked up at John where he sat filling out the paperwork Lestrade had given them.  That had been a splendid development.  John was quite efficient at filling out paperwork, as that was a requirement of his job, and he’d done a passable job listening to Sherlock so he was able to fill in the gaps for Lestrade in terms he would be able to understand without much difficulty.  It was much less tedious than trying to fill in the blanks himself.  He crossed and uncrossed his legs once more in an attempt to do something with the energy coursing through his veins at having caught a serial killer.  And at seeing John again, even if he didn’t quite want to admit it.  He drummed his fingers on Lestrade’s desk, trying to read the files Lestrade had spread across his desk upside down.

John glanced over at him, his mouth quirked up in amusement, “I thought you said this was the not boring option."  He gestured to the documents and offered Sherlock the pen, "You’re welcome to take over if I’m not filling it in quickly enough.”

“I said this was the _less_ boring option.” Sherlock corrected.  “It’s still incredibly dull.  We caught the serial killer what more can he possibly expect.”

John laughed and Sherlock couldn’t help the way his mouth curled up in sympathy at the sound.  Fortunately, John had turned back to the form in his hand and hadn’t seemed to notice, “Almost done.” he said, a small smile still on his lips.

Sherlock fiddled with the buttons on his shirt, he wasn’t entirely used to wearing shirts this structured anymore, he hadn’t worn them after he left Public School and went to University.  The only way they were even remotely tolerable was with the top few buttons undone and he absolutely refused to wear a tie.  But he’d found dressing up a bit was the only way he could get any of the officers at the Met to take him seriously.  When Sherlock had approached them a few weeks ago after he’d found evidence proving a man they’d arrested for a murder innocent he’d approached several detectives with the information and no one received it well.  He’d been ready to give up when he met Lestrade who’d initially written him off as a high Uni kid but had heard reason by the end of their conversation.

In the weeks that followed, he’d brought dozens of things to Lestrade’s attention and helped him with cases.  But the fourth time they’d met he’d been high as a kite and Lestrade refused to listen to him, in spite of the fact that Sherlock was right.  Lestrade had told him he wouldn’t listen to a word from him until he got clean.  Sherlock stopped taking drugs that very day, truthfully it was for the best there was no way he'd be able to afford rent if he continued to do drugs.  

There had been several things which had stuck in Sherlock’s mind from his visit with Wendell but his parting words about doing something only he could do had struck a chord.  So he’d done something only he could do, he started solving cases the Met was incapable of solving.

Sherlock had begun taking on private cases for people as well to allow him to pay rent on the flat he’d found the day he’d left Victor.  His life had changed so much in the three weeks since he’d last seen John Watson.  

But John had changed in the last three weeks, too.  Sherlock had noticed how different John looked the moment he stepped up to the bar.  He stopped fiddling with his button and took this moment, when John wasn’t scrutinizing to him the way he had been in the bar (and the entire evening, if Sherlock was being honest) to look at John, to really look at him.  

He looked tired.  At the moment, John was clearly still a bit high on adrenaline but Sherlock had seen his exhaustion at the bar and could see the bags under his eyes now.  He was also thinner than the last time Sherlock had seen him, he must have lost about seven pounds by Sherlock's estimation.  He didn’t appear as healthy in general as he had and Sherlock wondered what had happened to John in the past three weeks.  He looked emotionally drained, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “How’s your mother?”

John turned and raised an eyebrow at him, “She’s fine, better than her doctors had expected.  Thank you for asking?” John said, clearly taken a bit off-guard by Sherlock’s seemingly random question.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally and folded his hands under his chin, taking in as much data about John as he could.

John shrugged and turned back to the paperwork once more.  It wasn’t more than a few minutes before he finished and scribbled his signature onto the paper.  “Right.  That’s done.” he looked over at Sherlock, “So.  Do you want to get some dinner?  Or a coffee?” When no response from Sherlock was forthcoming, he added, “Or a drink?”

“Why haven’t you been sleeping?” Sherlock asked.

John looked taken aback by his question, “I’ve been working a lot lately.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, it’s wasn’t the whole answer and he didn’t think John was going to give up the real answer that easily.  For a moment Sherlock was tempted to go out and have a coffee, he was curious about why John hadn’t been sleeping lately.  And truth be told, he was strangely attracted to the man.  There was just something about him that Sherlock didn’t quite understand and it always made him seem like a bit of a mystery.  Sherlock loved a good mystery.  

On the other hand, he still wasn’t quite ready to trust that John didn’t just see him as another person he wanted to save, another problem he wanted to solve.  Furthermore, he most certainly wasn’t ready to have a conversation with John about whatever it was that had happened when he’d slept at his flat.  

No matter how Sherlock had tried to forget it, and try he had, _repeatedly_ , he couldn’t manage to delete that night.  He couldn’t get rid of the memory of the glow he’d felt upon waking, nor could he evict from his ming the image of John’s look of utter confusion and loss when Sherlock had left after their spat.  They played on a loop as Sherlock tried to fall asleep at night, it was ridiculously frustrating.  If only for some closure, Sherlock was tempted to go out with John.  Solve the mystery once and for all and be done with it, then he could move on.

No, Sherlock was in the process of cleaning up his life, he didn’t need to add John Watson into the mix and turn his whole messy world on it’s head even further.  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” he said softly.

John looked crestfallen for a moment and he opened his mouth to speak.

Even without hearing the words Sherlock knew what he was going to say or at least the direction his words were headed.  “I don’t want your apologies or your explanations.” Sherlock said quickly, God knew he’d heard enough apologies and rationalizations to last him a lifetime.  And maybe it wasn’t fair to tell John he didn’t want to hear what he had to say because of Victor’s constant, meaningless apologizing and because of Mycroft’s incessant need to rationalize everything as though it somehow made it right, but he just couldn’t bear to listen to John do the same thing.  

“I don’t want to talk about your flat.” he stood from his chair and nodded at John, “Thank you for your assistance this evening.” he said, turning on his heel.

He left John sitting in Lestrade’s office without another word.  He’d half expected John to follow behind him, to try to _make him understand_ , to say the words that made Sherlock wanted to wretch but he didn’t.  John stayed exactly where Sherlock left him, rooted to the chair.  Sherlock didn’t know how long John sat there but as he walked down the hall toward the front door, he felt a sense of accomplishment and gratefulness that John was respecting his wishes.

The feeling was strangely short-lived, however.  The further he got from John the more he wondered if he had made the right decision.  He wasn’t more than a few block away when he realized he was actually quite frustrated that John hadn’t followed him.

It was completely irrational.  Sherlock knew this because he was, if nothing else, a highly rational being.  In fact, he prided himself on his ability to think about things from a logical, rational standpoint.  John had never been anything but polite and kind to him, why should this change now?  Of course he’d stayed behind and respected Sherlock’s wishes, John wasn’t the type of man to force his presence where it clearly wasn’t wanted.  

This knowledge, however, did nothing to change the fact that the further he got from the Yard, and subsequently John, the more irked he was that John hadn’t come after him.  

Several minutes later, he stomped into the hovel of a flat which he was currently living in, feeling thoroughly irritated (which should not have been the case as he’d just caught a _serial killer_ for goodness sake; he should be over the moon, practically high from the chemicals and endorphins released.)  He slammed the door and spared a moment’s concern that the door might fall off it’s rusty hinges.  The lights overhead flickered weakly as they fought their terrible circuitry to provide him with light.  Sherlock scrubbed his hands over his face and flopped down onto the beaten up leather sofa the previous tenant had left behind.  

This was the most terrible flat he’d ever set foot in and he’d been rather disgusted when he’d viewed it.  But this flat had been what he could afford and it had offered him one thing his previous residence had not. _Freedom_.  

He heard a small, weak sounding meow and felt a weight settle on his chest as the stray cat who’d been living in this flat when Sherlock moved in climbed onto his chest.  His landlord had offered to get rid of her, to take her to a shelter.  Sherlock suspected he would have simply dumped her on the street and hadn’t been able to send her to away.  

She was a rather sickly cat; small and thin, and she’d had mites in her ears but she was a fighter.  He’d felt a kinship with her from the moment he saw her; it seemed to him that she was just misunderstood and in need of some affection.

Sherlock had taken her to a vet the second day he’d lived in the flat and gotten her some ear drops; he’d faithfully applied them twice a day and left food and water out for her when he left.  In exchange, she offered him her undying affection and devotion.  She seemed to know when Sherlock was upset or frustrated and was never far away.  She climbed into his lap or wrapped herself around his legs when he was puzzling over a case and curled up on his chest to sleep at night.  Sherlock thought this was a more than fair trade as he lightly stroked his fingers down her back.  The feeling of loneliness seeped out of his bones a bit at the sound of her stuttering purr.

“It’s better this way.” he murmured.  “You understand don’t you, Boo?” The name had seemed fitting for her as she had shied away from everyone except Sherlock and wanted nothing to do with the outside world.  “Alone is what I have.  Alone protects me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you LoneBlackWolf for pointing out the inconsistency between chapters with the time! As ever, dear readers, if anything jumps out at you like this please do not hesitate to let me know, I am more than happy to fix it! <3


	10. Chapter 10

_ John _

After Sherlock had left John in Lestrade’s office, he’d been sure that he would never see or hear from Sherlock Holmes again.  He’d risen from the chair, feeling much older than he was and like a weight had settled on his chest, and gone home to his stupidly empty flat and fallen asleep.  

What he hadn’t been expecting was to be awoken from his slumber at half past four by a text.   **How long would you expect it to take a healthy female in her mid twenties to recover from a broken hip assuming it was the first time she’d ever had an injury of this sort?-SH**

John was completely befuddled but sent back a response none the less, feeling strangely hopeful that maybe Sherlock wasn’t ready to be rid of him just yet.  **_Typically 3-4 months, especially at that age with the right Physical Therapy.  Why?_ **

He waited patiently for a response but received nothing and fell back to sleep only to be awoken forty minutes later by another message.   **What are potential causes for decalcification of bones?  Is there any way for it to occur naturally in a healthy female in her mid twenties?-SH**

**_I’d expect there was something amiss with her diet; perhaps anorexia or bulimia? It’s unusual, even if that is the case, that decalcification would have occurred this early on, though.  Are you sure she was healthy? No cancer? No Hypercalcemia?_ **

**No.-SH**

**Unnatural causes?-SH**

**_Radiation?_ **

And so it went for the next four days.  Sherlock would text him seemingly random questions about things that were vaguely related to medicine and John would do his best to answer.  He wasn’t sure exactly what the parameters of their relationship were, whether Sherlock simply thought of him as a work resource or if he might view him as a friend.  Most of all, he was unsure of what Sherlock wanted from him.

John’s fingers itched to send him an apology, to tell him he hadn’t meant to offend or upset him.  He longed to ask for a second chance but he was terrified of the idea of scaring Sherlock off entirely, so he waited.  His inability to do anything but wait in limbo while Sherlock decided whether he wanted to be... well, whatever it was Sherlock wanted them to be, was driving him mad.

So he did what he did every time a relationship in his life didn’t make sense, he called his sister and asked her to dinner.  It was a code that both of them understood but never acknowledged; _dinner_ meant someone needed to complain and work through an issue.  She’d obliged, as she always did, and they met up at a pub.  John regretted the decision to meet at a pub pretty much instantaneously, Harry didn’t seem to be controlling her alcohol problem well and based on family history it worried him a bit.

Harry saw his concern, even as he tried to hide it and huffed at him.  “It’s fine, Johnny.  I’ve got it under control.”

John nodded and popped a chip in his mouth.

“So, what’s going on in your life?” Harry asked, “You seeing anyone?”

“Tell me about Clara first.  How is she?” John said, taking a sip of his beer, he wasn’t quite ready to talk about Sherlock yet.  Somehow talking to Harry about it made it seem more real and he just needed another minute to steel himself.

Harry seemed to understand, “She’s good.  Really good.” she said with a smile which John returned; it was good to see her happy.  “We’re talking about getting married.”

“Really?" John asked, Harry nodded.  "That’s fantastic!” John said.  “I’m happy for you.” he said, reaching out to give her hand a squeeze, “Truly.”

“Thank you.” she said with another quick grin.  “So tell me about this mystery man.  I haven’t heard about anyone in a while but he must be a new one, yeah?”

“How do you know it’s a man?” John asked with a laugh.  

“Because you never know what to do with men.  Pleasing women is easy for you until you get bored of them, but men don’t bore you and I don’t think you know quite what to do with that.”

“Women don’t bore me.” John said, affronted.

Harry hummed and took a sip of her wine, “They do but you can continue to live in your delusion if you so choose.” She raised an eyebrow at him, “Was I wrong?  Are you here about a woman?”

John sighed, “Now I wish I was just to prove you wrong.”

Harry grinned at him triumphantly and for a moment John was transported back to his childhood.  “Some things never change.” John said with a laugh, “You still aren’t a graceful winner.”

She shrugged, “I like to be right.  It’s why I’m a lawyer.  Now spill.”

He sighed, “It all started six months ago. He was a patient...” he spent the next twenty minutes telling her everything, starting with Sherlock at the hospital, bringing him home to his flat, Sherlock’s abrupt departure, the attempted murder, and finally the texting.  “It’s just strange, you know?  He’s turned my life upside down and I barely even know him.”

“Did you sleep with him, yet?”

John felt himself blush, there were some things a person simply didn’t discuss with their sister and his sex life was one of them.  “Not that it’s any of your business.” he said, “But no.”

“Maybe you should.” she said with a shrug, “Just get it out of your system.”

John shook his head, “That would make it worse.  Do you know what the hormones in your brain do when you have sex with someone?”

Holding up a hand she said, “Please spare me from the lecture, Dr. Watson.  I’ll take your word for it.” 

“And besides, it’s more than that.” John said.  “I just click with him.” he shook his head, trying to put his feelings into words and failing.  “He’s completely mad and brilliant, he could do anything he set his mind to; he has no need for me whatsoever.  But at the same time when he pulls me into his crazy whirlwind of a life it makes me feel important; like there is some inherent value to my existence because he needed something from me.  It’s a completely ridiculous response to being used to bait a murderer, fill out paperwork, and answer questions about medicine that google usually could, I realize, but I can’t help it.  And then there are moments when he’s unbearably sweet and vulnerable and I want nothing more than the make him happy.”  John shrugged, feeling completely hopeless.

Harry stared at him slack jawed for a moment before she shook her head, “You’ve got it bad.”

John let his head fall forward onto the table, “I know.” he groaned.  “I told you it was crazy.”

“I think the only option you have is to talk to him.” 

“Weren’t you listening?” John asked, lifting his head up off the table once again and glaring at her.  “He doesn’t want to talk about it.  Personal conversation is pretty much a non sequitur, he shuts down immediately and has an instantaneous fight or flight reaction.”

“Well can you really blame him with the relationship he was in?” she asked.  “You know what that kind of shite does to people.”

John was about to respond when his text alert went off.  Butterflies took flight in his stomach at the sound, he forced himself to take a deep breath and mentally prepared himself for the possibility that it was just work.  “Sorry.” he said to Harry as he reached for his phone.  She smirked knowingly at him, but said nothing.  

He felt another jolt of excitement when he saw it was Sherlock.   **22 Blackthorn Ave.  I require some assistance.-SH**

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Harry asked, a smug grin on her face.

Before he could answer, his text alert went off once more.   **Could be dangerous.-SH**

“Bloody hell.  I’ve got to go.” he looked up trying to feel apologetic but having a hard time tamping down his excitement.

Harry smiled at him, “Go on, then.”

“Thanks.” he said, standing and leaving a handful of notes on the table.  He pressed a kiss to her cheek.  “It was good to see you.  I’m glad things are working out with Clara.”

“Me too.”

He cleared his throat and looked down at his feet, “I know you don’t want to, but you should give mum a ring if you get a minute.”

“Johnny...”

“I know.” he said quickly.  “I really do, Harry.  But she’s dying and you might not have much longer left.”

“It’s not going to happen.” she said firmly.

“Well just think about it, yeah?  For me?” John asked.

She nodded once.  

John pressed a kiss to her temple, “Thank you.  Love you.  I’ll text you soon.”

“Yeah.” she said, turning to grin at him once more, “Tell me when you’ve gotten together.” 

He rolled his eyes, “See you.”

“Bye.” she said with a wave, turning back to finish her fish and chips.  

John left the restaurant and head to Blackthorn Ave.  He flagged down the first cab he came across and gave the cabbie the address, wondering what Sherlock could have needed from him.  Perhaps he had a body he wanted John to look at and give a medical opinion about?  But he’d said it could be dangerous, it seemed unlikely that a dead body was going to pose a threat to his person.

He was still pondering when the taxi pulled up outside of a house that looked about as normal as one might imagine a house could look.  Paying the cabbie his fare, John climbed out and proceeded to look around.  There was no sign of Sherlock anywhere, as he was pulling out his phone to check that he had the right address, he heard a shout and a gunshot from the house in front of him.

His heart leapt into his throat and he took off up the steps and into the house.  He opened the door and went inside, sticking close to the walls and staying partially hunched over.  

As his eyes adjusted he caught glimpses of the man with the gun moving around the living room through the doorway, opening doors and checking behind chairs, “Come out you little rat.” the man called.

John edged his way toward the door and waited as the man made his way to entrance John was waiting near.  The muzzle of the gun poked out first and John grabbed it, pushing it to the right so it was pointing away from his body, which proved valuable as a shot rang out not a moment later.  He grabbed the man’s wrist with his other hand and snapped the gun up toward the man, breaking his grip on the gun and simultaneously punching him in the nose with it.  

John leveled the gun at the man who was now clutching his nose and stepped into the room.  “On your knees.” he said, his voice calm and brooking no argument.  “Put your hands on your head.”

The man glared at him but did as he was told, blood pouring down his face.  

“Make any sudden moves and I will shoot you.” John said.  John didn't see Sherlock immediately and felt a spike of panic that he'd been shot before he'd come into the house.

Before he could call out, however, Sherlock was at his side, he seemed to be texting.  “Hello, John.” he said as though they had casually met for coffee rather than greeting one another after having been shot at.  “Impeccable timing.  I’m just letting Lestrade know we’ve caught his burglar turned murderer.”

"Who the fuck are you two?" the apparent burglar asked.

Sherlock looked up from his phone, "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson." he said simply before send off another text.

John said nothing but glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out if Sherlock had some sort of deathwish.  It wasn’t more than a few minutes when they heard sirens and tires screeching to a halt outside of the house.  A moment later the door flew open and John heard Lestrade’s voice, “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

John wondered momentarily if this was how every conversation Sherlock had with Lestrade began.

“You’re under arrest.” Lestrade told the man currently kneeling in front of John as he walked around behind him and handcuffed the man.  John lowered the gun once Lestrade had hauled the man to his feet.

He turned to face Sherlock as Lestrade took the criminal out the front door, reciting his rights as he went.  “This is how you get your kicks, isn’t it?” John asked, and it must have been the adrenaline but he felt the most absurd urge to laugh.  “You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

Sherlock glanced at him, his head tilted slightly to the side as though he’d heard or seen something he hadn’t quite expected, “Why would I do that?” 

“Because you’re an idiot.” John said with a bit of fondness seeping into his tone.

Sherlock looked at him with his brow slightly furrowed but then a grin quirked his lips and he started to say something.  

He was interrupted as Lestrade popped his head back in again, “Alright you two, get a bloody cab and get yourselves to the Yard.”  John couldn’t quite make out what he was grumbling under his breath as he walked away but it didn’t sound pleasant.

“Come on.”  Sherlock said as he started out the door.  “I’ll catch you up on the way, you’ll have a fair bit of paperwork to fill out when we get there.”

John couldn’t help the grin on his face as he followed Sherlock out the door, thinking offhandedly that he ought to chronicle these adventures so someday when he was old and grey he could look back and remember how incredibly mad his life had turned out.  He may not have gone to Afghanistan but it would seem when you walked with Sherlock Holmes you saw the battlefield, none the less.


	11. Chapter 11

_ Sherlock _

Sherlock had been having a more terrible day than usual and given his string of terrible days for the past several months that was saying something.  The morning had begun with a bit of hope, as he’d gone to the courthouse to see if the appeals committee had been able to do anything to get his brother out of prison.  He was sure the words, “The court upholds the original ruling convicting Oliver Wendell Holmes of Treason under the Treason Act of 1351.” would haunt his dreams.  The gavel was struck and Wendell was lead out of the court in handcuffs once more.

Sherlock had sat in the courtroom with his head in his hands for some indeterminate amount of time, fuming at the ruling.  Wendell hadn’t been trying to start a bloody war, it had just been a few lines of computer code.  This was ludicrous.

When he left he’d want nothing more than to get high; to wipe away the thoughts and feelings and just float for a while.  He’d set out to find the suppliers he’d always used in the past only to find that Victor had vindictively paid every single one of them off to ensure they wouldn’t sell to him.

Sherlock was debating the merits of simply putting his knowledge of chemistry to work and cooking his own drugs when Lestrade had text him asking for a consultation. At the text, he’d thought his day might have been improving only to meet the newest addition to the forensic department upon his arrival.  Philip Anderson was irritation incarnate and seemed to feel similarly about Sherlock.  Perhaps Sherlock could have probably tolerated Anderson were he not completely oblivious to his total incompetence and ignorance; but as it stood, Anderson seemed to be laboring under the delusion that he was rather brilliant.

They’d parted ways soon enough and Sherlock had gone out to do his own searching but Lestrade had summoned him to a second crime scene and Sherlock had dealt with Anderson once more.  The evidence had lead him to a house on Blackthorn Avenue and on a whim he’d shot off a text to John.  

Texting had become a regular occurrence between the two of them over the past few days and the more he texted John the more he wanted to.  He found himself texting John for the most ridiculous reasons at times; often he found himself texting John questions that he was fairly certain he knew the answer to or could have found the answer with little difficulty simply to see if John would continue to respond.  And to his delight, John always did.  What could be the harm in texting him to tag along and catch another murderer?

It had proved most auspicious when the burglar had pulled out a gun.  That had been something Sherlock hadn’t been expecting as he hadn’t used a gun the past two times he’d killed someone.  Just another thing to add to the list of things to go terribly wrong today, he supposed.  But, on a brighter note, it had served to prove Sherlock’s theory that the first two murders hadn’t been premeditated; it did mean, however, that rather than simply dealing with a burglar with murderous tendencies he was dealing with a murder who happened to be trying to burglar a house.  The distinction was greater than one might suppose.

Then John had shown up and Sherlock had been so distracted by noticing that John had been out to dinner before coming there and dealing with the date-like implications of such that he could hardly string a sentence together in greeting.  The green monster of jealousy had reared it’s ugly head and Sherlock felt irrationally irritated with John for going on a date.  But, his mind reasoned, John had come without complaint, presumably leaving his date at the restaurant to meet him.  That had to count for something.

The ride back to the Yard had been an easy, companionable one as Sherlock explained the finer points of the case to John who laughed and praised his brilliance.  Sherlock was watching him now and trying to deduce him as he filled out the paperwork.  He seemed to be better rested than when Sherlock had seen him earlier this week, which was strange as Sherlock had text him at odd hours of the night and always received a response within five minutes of sending the message.  He seemed oddly content to be here with Sherlock, as well.

“Was your date dull?” Sherlock asked, because he was genuinely curious as to why John would rather be here filling out paperwork with him than out to dinner with a date.

“Hmmm?” John asked, looking up at him from the page he was scribbling on.

“Your date.” Sherlock said with a sigh.  “The one you were on before you came here, was it dull?”

“Date?” John asked as though he had no idea what Sherlock was talking about.

“Yes.” Sherlock said impatiently.  “It’s obvious you were out to dinner before you met me.  You’re dressed up, your hair is styled.  You’ve spilled a bit of beer on your shirt; but knowing your beer preference it wasn’t a kind you are overly fond of so it was either ordered for you by someone else or you were trying to drink less.  Judging by the bit of residual lipstick on your cheek I’m assuming you were out with a woman tonight.  As such, being the gentleman you are, you would have paid for the drinks and for the meal.  Therefore I can only conclude that you ordered the drinks yourself and ordered something you didn’t particularly like as a means of drinking less and keeping your wits about you so you didn’t go home with her.  So I’ll ask again, was your date dull?”

John stared at him for a moment, “That was incredible.” he said, “You are incredible.” Sherlock felt himself flushing a bit under the praise as he always did.  “But it wasn’t a date.  I was out to dinner with my sister.” 

“Your sister.”

John nodded with a grin, “Although you’re right, I was trying to drink less.  I’m worried she’s becoming an alcoholic and didn’t want to encourage her.”

“So you weren’t on a date tonight?” 

“No.” 

“Oh.” was all Sherlock could think to say.

John turned back to the paperwork, with a grin.  “So,” John said as he signed his name at the bottom of the form, “Do you want-”  

“A drink.” Sherlock blurted out, then hurried on to cover up his over-eagerness.  “Since I interrupted your night out, the least I can do is buy you a drink.” Mentally he added that after the day he’d had he could use one.

John smiled at him, “I’ll accept.” he said, standing from his chair and stretching.  “Although, the last time I was at a bar you gave me all my drinks for free, so it might be my turn.” 

Sherlock snorted, “I’m sure you go out and don’t pay for a drink all night fairly often.”

“I think that might have been compliment.” John said with a chuckle.

“Take it as you will.” Sherlock said, with a put upon sigh but a grin tugged at the corners of his lips.

The door opened, interrupting their banter and Lestrade stomped in and pointed at the two of them, “You are both completely barking.” he said.  Then he shook his head in exasperation, “I cannot condone hunting down murderers on your own, but I am grateful you caught him.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock said.

John glanced at him in amusement.

Lestrade glanced through the filled out forms before saying, “Alright, get out of here.” and waving them off.

“Good to see you again, Greg.” John said with a smile and a wave.  “Have a good night.”

“Yeah you guys, too.” he responded.

John led the way out the door and started off down the sidewalk, Sherlock followed him, “Where are we going?” he asked.

John grinned at him, “It’s a place I used to go when I was in Uni.”  

“When the dinosaurs roamed the earth?” Sherlock quipped.

John bumped him with his shoulder, “I’m not that much older than you, you git.”  Sherlock laughed and John continued with a huff, “As I was saying, it’s a place I used to go when I was in Uni and drinks are half priced on Thursdays.  I became friends with one of the owners.  The music is good, but it’s not too loud so if people actually wanted to have a conversation they could.” 

Sherlock felt his stomach drop a bit at the mention of a conversation, what could John possibly want to talk about?  Couldn’t they just leave everything in the past where it belonged?  He really wasn’t in the mood for deep soul searching, it had been too long of a day already.  

“Or you can dance.” John added, obviously picking up on Sherlock’s distress.  “Or we could sit there in silence if that’s what you want.”

Sherlock didn’t respond and John stopped on the sidewalk, Sherlock paused and turned to look at him, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets.

John looked more unsure of himself than Sherlock had ever seen him, “Do you actually want to do this?” he asked, sounding very serious.  “I won’t hold it against you if you just want to go home.  I don’t know what I did or said when you were at my flat but I’m sorry.”

Sherlock sighed, “I want to have a drink with you.” he said and it was true, he really did want to have drink with John.  He wanted to do something easy, something fun; he wanted to forget about all of the terrible things this day had brought him. “I just don’t want to talk about what happened at your flat, I don’t want to talk about Victor, and I don’t want to talk about my day.”  He swallowed and scuffed his foot against the pavement, “I just want to be normal.  Just for one night.”

John smiled at him, “I can do that.” he cleared his throat and squared his shoulders.  He held out his hand to Sherlock, “John Watson.”

A grin spread across Sherlock’s face, he felt silly but he took John’s hand all the same, “Sherlock Holmes.  Pleasure”

“I assure you the pleasure is all mine.  Can I buy you a drink?”

“I would like that.” Sherlock replied.

John grinned at him and set off down the sidewalk once more, reaching over to slip his fingers through Sherlock’s as they walked.  Sherlock looked down at their entwined fingers and then looked back up at John.  John tilted his head, “Alright?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded with a small smile.  They walked in companionable silence, John swinging Sherlock’s hand as they went, sending warm tingles up his arm and somehow making Sherlock feel like he was floating ten feet off the ground.  

John pulled them to a stop in front of a door to an innocuous looking building.  “This is it?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“Yep.” John said with a grin, “It’s more than meets the eye.”  He pulled open the door and music spilled out onto the pavement.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, “Their soundproofing must be pretty spectacular.” he said as he walked through the door John held open.  

John nodded, “They got a fair number of noise violations when they first opened.” he said leaning in to speak in Sherlock’s ear so he didn’t have to shout.  “So they sound proofed the whole thing.”

“You know a lot about this pla...” Sherlock started when he was interrupted by a shriek from the girl tending the bar as she charged toward them.

She was petite, with dark hair and skin, and huge brown eyes; a lovely girl, really.  Sherlock hated her the moment she jumped into John’s outstretched arms and hugged him, “Harry didn’t tell me you were coming!  You just missed her.”

“I didn’t know I’d be here myself.” he said with a smile.  He turned to Sherlock with an arm still around the girl’s waist and said, “Sherlock this is Clara, my sister’s girlfriend.  Clara, this is my friend Sherlock.”

A weight seemed to lift off his chest at the words ‘sister’s girlfriend’ and Sherlock wondered vaguely when he’d started feeling so possessive of John.  Sherlock held out a hand but Clara inspected him for a moment before pulling him into a hug as well, “It’s nice to meet you.” she said, then lowered her voice and said in his ear, “Be kind to him.  He deserves something good in his life.”  She pressed a kiss to his cheek and pulled away, bouncing back to the bar. 

John smiled at him and linked their fingers once more, “Sorry, I should have warned you about her but I wasn’t sure she would even be here tonight.  She’s a bit...” he paused as he thought of an apt descriptor, “Enthusiastic.” he laughed, “She’s a sweet girl but she and my sister couldn’t be more different.  She’s been good for Harry, I think.” 

Sherlock nodded, but wasn’t really listening, his brain was replaying what Clara had said,  _ He deserves something good in his life. _  What exactly did that mean?  It implied that he didn’t have something good in his life at the moment or that he’d spent a fair amount of time without something good.  But why?  Was it just that his mother had cancer?  It seemed like something more and Sherlock was reminded once more of the first time he’d met John and he’d told Sherlock he had secrets that he didn’t tell people.

“Hey.” John said giving his hand a light tug and bringing Sherlock back to the present, “Ready for that drink?”

Sherlock smiled and nodded.  Reminding himself that he just wanted one night of being normal.

“Come on, then.” John said, pulling Sherlock over to the bar.

Clara came over, “What’ll it be boys?”

John looked over at Sherlock, “What are you having?”

“I’ll just have a whiskey, neat please.”

“You can give me whatever’s on tap.” John said smiling at her and pulling out his wallet.

Clara waved him away, “First round’s on the house.” she said with a smile before walking over to get their drinks.

Sherlock chuckled, “What was that about buying me a drink?  By my estimation, you’ve still not paid for a drink in the entire time I’ve spent with you in a bar.”

John grinned at him, “It’s part of my charm.” 

Sherlock hummed, looking John over from head to toe “I just don’t see it.”

John shoved his shoulder playfully and Sherlock couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face to match John’s.  

Clara brought their drinks over and set them in front of the two of them.  “How’s your mum?” she asked.

John nodded as he took a sip of his beer, “She’s doing pretty well, actually.  Thanks for asking.  She would love to see Harry, if you could convince her.”

Clara frowned a bit, “I’ve tried, believe me.  But Harry just blames her for so much of the messed up crap from your-” she started.

John cut her off, “I know, Clara.” he said wearily and Sherlock wondered if he was just tired of having the same argument with his sister or if he was just trying to keep Sherlock from learning something about him.  “I get it.” he said, “I really do.  But I think she’ll regret it if she doesn’t make up with mum before she dies.”

Clara nodded.  “I’ll do what I can.” she replied.

John gave her a smile, “Thank you.”

She nodded and moved down the bar to take care of someone else.  Sherlock opened his mouth to ask a question, to ask what his sister held against their mother, to ask about John’s past but John spoke first.

“One night?” he asked softly.  “Can we just have one night where we don’t talk about the shite from our pasts?  One night where we just don’t think about the past and just  _ enjoy _ the present?”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded once.

John reached over and gave his hand an affectionate squeeze, “Thank you.” he said softly.

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock replied, taking a sip of his drink.

Sherlock was just finishing up his first drink when John turned to him, “Do you dance?” he asked.

Sherlock wrinkled up his nose, “To this?” he said, gesturing to the pop music blaring from the speakers, “No.” 

“But that implies you do dance to something.” John said.

Sherlock inclined his head, “I took dance lessons as a child and ballroom dance as an adolescent.” 

John grinned at him, “That’s amazing.  You’ll have to teach me someday.”  He waved at Clara and held up two fingers.  She started preparing shots.  “Right.” John said to Sherlock.  “We’re both going to do a couple of shots, then you are going to come out and dance with me because I love to dance.  Additionally, with how agile and graceful you are naturally, I can’t imagine you’ll be anything other than a fantastic dancer.”

Sherlock was about to protest when Clara arrived with their shots, placing two in front of John and two in front of Sherlock.

“Drink up.” John said, pounding his shots back in rapid succession.

Sherlock looked at them dubiously but then decided it couldn’t hurt and swallowed his down as well.  When he’d finished, he looked over at John who grinned at him and took his hand, pulling him out onto the dance floor.

Sherlock watched John as he started to dance, his motions were fluid and confident as though he truly didn’t care about who was watching him.  He looked free and in that moment there was nothing Sherlock longed for more than the freedom John appeared to have.  But when he started to try to mirror John’s movement he felt gangly and uncoordinated.  He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his arms or how he was meant to move his hips.

John seemed to notice him struggling and took both of his hands in his and drew him in so he was mere inches from him as the song changed to one with a latin beat that felt a bit like a samba. John grinned at him before leaning in and speaking in Sherlock’s ear, “Did your ballroom dance classes teach you to Bachata?”  

His close proximity to Sherlock caused John’s hips brushed against his as he spoke and Sherlock found his hands sliding down John’s body to rest at his hips without a conscious thought.  His hips began to move on their own and his feet set up a rocking motion.

John leaned back a bit to see Sherlock’s face and grinned roguishly at him, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Truthfully, it had been a long time since Sherlock had done any dancing whatsoever and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind as he started leading John that he was mixing up his latin dances.  He slid his hands back up to a respectable place, leaving one on John’s shoulder and drawing the other down his arm until their hands met again.  Sherlock wondered where John had learned how to follow and how to do the female side of this dance at all.  

John drew his hand from where it was resting on Sherlock’s shoulder up his neck and to his face, tilting his chin so Sherlock was looking at John instead of his feet.  “Relax.” he said.  “I won’t even know the difference if you do the wrong steps.”

Sherlock could make out every shade of blue in John’s eyes from this close and was mesmerized for a moment before he forced himself to break the spell and speak. “You’re the one all the ballroom instructors warned me about, aren’t you?” he asked over the noise as he started to fall into the natural rhythm of the steps.  “They always told us if we went out dancing to watch out for the people who thought they wanted to ballroom dance but really only know how to dance dirty versions.” 

“Yep.” John said with a grin, intentionally grinding his hips forward to brush against Sherlock’s provocatively.  

They fell into the motions together and Sherlock was reminded of just how much he loved dancing with a partner.  He’d always loved the perfect synchronicity, the way two bodies flowed together into one.  But there was something different about dancing with John than there ever had been with anyone else.  Perhaps it was just that John wasn’t working as hard as his other partners had to do the right steps and he didn’t care what Sherlock did as long as he kept dancing.  Or maybe it was the way John danced with complete reckless abandon and invited Sherlock to dance with the same freedom.  Or maybe it was just dancing with John who always made Sherlock feel like whatever they did, they did together.  Whatever the reason, Sherlock found himself relaxing into the music, enjoying the way their bodies moved together and the way John’s hands roamed over his body.  He found his hands returning the favor, sliding across John’s shoulders and down his back before coming to rest on his hips once more.

The music changed again but John continued dancing, holding Sherlock close to him and Sherlock continued as well, changing his dancing a bit to match John’s.  John looked up at him, a smile playing on his lips, his face open; taking obvious delight in Sherlock’s closeness.

Sherlock didn’t do this.  He didn’t dance with people, he didn’t flirt, and he certainly didn’t kiss people.  He’d never actively desired another human being in his life, but as his body pressed against John’s there was no other word to describe how he felt.  He desired John Watson; it felt like John was everything he never knew he wanted and now, when he was so close, he simply had to have him.  

With a deep breath, Sherlock leaned in and pressed his lips against John’s.  He felt John sigh against his lips, accepting his advances without hesitation.  John wound his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and tipped his head to better slot his mouth against Sherlock’s.  Sherlock slid his tongue along the seam of John’s lips and John allowed him access instantly, sliding his tongue against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock had never really understood kissing.  He’d never understood what made two people want to press their mouths together and exchange saliva.  That all changed the moment his lips met John’s.  Kissing John and moving to the music with John felt like all his body had ever wanted him to do.  It felt like he could do this and nothing else for the rest of his life and he would be content.

He pulled John in closer to him, feeling irrationally as though he couldn’t get John close enough.  John stroked Sherlock’s curls back off his face and ran his fingers along Sherlock’s cheeks and neck with soft, tender movements that made Sherlock shudder.  

Sherlock pulled back a moment to look at John, “Take me home with you.” 

John brushed his thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone and looked at his face as though he were trying to read his mind, then nodded.  He took Sherlock’s hand once more and led him out into the night.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been so overwhelmed (in the best possible way imaginable) by the wonderful, kind words left in comments for this fic. I have no words to express my deepest gratitude for your kindness.
> 
> This chapter turned very sweet and smutty. If smut isn't your thing, you should probably skip over this chapter; you really won't miss any plot whatsoever. (Although if you do skip it, you will miss out on the happy bit as the next chapter won't be so happy)
> 
> I hope all of you enjoy this chapter. <3 Blessings

_ John  _

John had been rather surprised by the way this evening had unfolded.  If someone had told him his evening would be filled with crime fighting followed by drinks and dancing with Sherlock Holmes he would have laughed in their face.  But then, to his surprise and delight, Sherlock had agreed to a drink with him and agreed to dance with him.  He’d been surprised by how willingly Sherlock had settled into his arms and into energy flowing between them.  He hadn’t imagined there could have been anything better in the world than holding Sherlock close to him and being able to just soak up the way he smelled, and sounded, and looked.  But then Sherlock had kissed him and he'd had to reevaluate his thought that nothing could be better than holding Sherlock because kissing him was infinitely better.

John couldn’t deny that he’d been thinking of kissing Sherlock when it happened.  John had been staring at Sherlock’s gorgeous mouth and thinking about what it would feel like to kiss him.  He’d been imagining running his tongue along Sherlock’s plush lower lip and tracing the severe points of his upper one.  He’d been envisioning what it would feel like to brush his lips back and forth against Sherlock’s ever so lightly to feel the soft delicate skin of his mouth with his own.

And then Sherlock had kissed him and it was ecstasy.  Kissing Sherlock felt like every good thing that had ever happened to him combined and multiplied tenfold.

_ Take me home with you. _  John was fairly certain he’d never heard words sweeter than these ones as they’d exited Sherlock’s incredible mouth.  He didn’t think he’d ever wanted anything as much as he wanted to touch Sherlock’s skin and worship his body.  He’d never wanted to make someone feel beautiful, and cherished, and worthy as much as he wanted to right now.

John hailed a cab and he and Sherlock climbed inside, John had barely gotten the address out of his mouth when Sherlock had all but climbed into his lap to start snogging him again.  John gasped under the assault and reached up to cradle Sherlock’s head in his hands and gave as good as he got.

It took the cabbie shouting at them for John and Sherlock to realize they’d stopped moving and had arrived at John’s flat.  John handed the cabbie a few notes and Sherlock all but dragged him out of the car and up the stairs.  They stumbled over one another on the way as Sherlock insisted on being pressed bodily against John and distracting him by pressing hot, opened mouth kisses along his neck whenever he could manage.  He fumbled with the lock on the door and Sherlock rumbled in his ear, “Hurry up, hurry up...” as his hands slipped under the hem of John's shirt to rub his back.

“Keep your trousers on, I’m working on it.”

Sherlock hummed low in his throat, “I’d really rather not.” 

“You’re incorrigible.” he said with a laugh as he finally got the damned door open.

When John made it through the door he turned to see Sherlock had already begun undoing his own buttons, all but vibrating with energy.

John pushed his hands out of the way, “Stop that.” he said, “That’s my job.”  He took over unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, pressing kisses to the pale, beautiful skin he exposed on Sherlock’s chest as he went.  He nosed the shirt to the side a bit to find one of Sherlock’s nipples and flicked his tongue against the rapidly hardening nub.  

Sherlock groaned and stilled under John’s hands and lips, his breath rushed out in one giant exhale and his hands fluttered at his sides as though he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them.  John moved his lips back to Sherlock’s as he finished unbuttoning his shirt, groaning as Sherlock’s tongue stroked along his own.

It wasn’t more than a moment before Sherlock reached for the hem of John’s shirt, and started to pull it over his head.  Neither of them considered the fact that they would need to separate their lips to accomplish this task and John’s head got stuck part of the way through.  This resulted in John giggling and Sherlock huffing and manhandling him out of his clothes with even more impatience.

When his shirt finally was off his body John couldn’t help but watch enraptured as Sherlock ran his fingers over John’s chest and abdomen; tracing his skin with feather-light touches as though he’d never touched another body before.  He slid his fingers along John's neck and shoulders, lingering for a moment on his collarbones.  Then his fingers moved across John’s pectorals, brushing over his nipples lightly before drifting down John’s ribcage and stomach.  His touch was nearly reverent as he took in every inch of John's torso. 

His brain seemed to come back online a moment later and his movements became more sure and quick as his hands moved to John’s belt buckle where he deftly undid both the buckle and the button and zip on John’s trousers.  

With a grin, he pushed John bodily back toward the bed, toppling him over onto it and yanking John’s trousers off his legs before shedding his own and crawling onto the bed and straddling John’s thighs.  John’s mind was hazy with hormones as he ran his hands along Sherlock’s strong thighs and eyed the bulge in Sherlock’s pants.  He licked his lips as he began imagining taking Sherlock apart inch by glorious inch and positively devouring him.

He dragged his fingers up Sherlock’s abdomen and circled his nipples with his thumbs.  Sherlock let out a deep groan and John continued to toy with his nipples, rolling them lightly between his thumb and forefinger.  Sherlock braced his hands on John’s chest, his head falling back and his hips undulating in short, abortive thrusts as though he couldn’t quite help himself.

  
"You're incredible." he said with a grin before rolling the two of them in a tangle of arms and legs, flipping their positions so Sherlock was lying on his back and John was kneeling between his legs, with his arms framing Sherlock’s head.  Sherlock let out a soft “Ooof.” sound as his breath rushed out of him at the sudden change in positions.  

Sherlock looked up at him through his eyelashes and ran his hands down John’s back until he reached his arse.  He massaged John’s buttocks through his pants and John let his head fall forward onto Sherlock’s shoulder where he pressed soft kisses to every inch of skin he could reach.  Impatient as ever, Sherlock gripped John’s hips and rolled his own hips up drawing their erections together.  

They both moaned at the contact and Sherlock rutted against him for a moment more before saying, “Hurry. Up.” and punctuating his words with two particularly hard thrusts of his hips.

John groaned at Sherlock’s words and the fantastic friction he was creating, “Patience.” he said, fighting Sherlock’s grip (and his own desire) and stilling his hips. He nibbled at the sensitive skin behind Sherlock’s ear and kissed along his jaw before drawing back to look at Sherlock once more.  

He was beautiful, there was no other word for it.  His cheeks were flushed and his pupils were blown wide, his curls fanned out on the pillow beneath his head like a halo.  John couldn’t help but lean forward and press his lips to Sherlock’s teasingly, watching as Sherlock’s eyes drifted closed and his breath hitched at the contact.  He brushed his lips back and forth against Sherlock’s exactly the way he’d imagined when they were at the club; reveling in the feel of that soft, smooth skin against his own lips.  Sherlock exhaled against his lips and his arms moved to stroke John’s back, running feather-light up his spine, seemingly content with this change of pace.  

John continued to torment Sherlock with those soft, teasing kisses; pulling back every time Sherlock tried to press forward for more until Sherlock was squirming under him.  Then he proceeded to press his lips to Sherlock’s more firmly before tracing Sherlock’s lips with his tongue and nipping lightly at his bottom lip.    

Sherlock was ridiculously, fantastically responsive and John adored the way he gasped and his fingers clenched against his shoulders.  Sliding his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, he rubbed at Sherlock’s scalp with his fingertips, coaxing a soft moan out of Sherlock’s lips.  Greedily, John swallowed down his mewling noises and panting as he continued his exploration of Sherlock’s mouth; he was certain if he did this every day for the next hundred years he would never rid himself of the feeling of awe and privilege he felt at being granted permission to do this.

Giving Sherlock’s hair a gentle tug, John tipped his head back and kissed down Sherlock’s jaw and chin before finally allowing himself access to Sherlock’s long, stunning neck.  He pressed kisses to the soft, creamy skin there, scraping his teeth lightly over Sherlock’s adam’s apple and relishing the way his body arched into John’s and his breath came quicker.  He nibbled lightly at Sherlock’s collarbones and continued to work his way down Sherlock’s chest, pressing a kiss to his sternum before moving over to tongue lightly at Sherlock’s nipple.  

This seemed be the best possible thing he could have done as Sherlock’s entire body arched up toward John, taut as a bow and he gasped out John’s name like it was a prayer.  Sherlock’s fingers entwined themselves in John’s hair and spasmed against his scalp as John closed his lips around the rosy bud of Sherlock’s nipple and drew it into his mouth, sucking lightly at it before biting down gently.

“John.” Sherlock groaned, and even though Sherlock had probably said his name dozens of times over the course of their knowing one another, there was something about the way he said it now that made John’s heart leap in his chest.  He said his name as though it was a familiar sound, as though it was a word he said all the time, it rolled easily off his tongue and it irrationally pleased John to no end. “Please.”  

With one last lick, John slid further down Sherlock’s body, pressing kisses to his abdomen and tugging lightly at the trail of hair making its way down Sherlock’s stomach and into the band of his pants.  John flicked his tongue into Sherlock’s belly button and Sherlock squirmed under him.

Finally, John moved down to mouth at the dark spot Sherlock’s leaking cock had made in the fabric.  He wrapped his lips around the head of Sherlock’s cock through his pants and rubbed his tongue over it before sucking.

“Please!” Sherlock gasped out, sounding all but frantic at this point.  John looked up his body currently gleaming with sweat, chest heaving as though he were running a marathon and he took pity on him.  John worked his pants down his hips, completely unaided by Sherlock thrashing about as he did so, and ran a finger lightly up the underside of Sherlock’s cock.  Wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s erection, he stroked it firmly a few times, smearing his precome down his shaft and rubbing at his frenulum with his thumb.  Sherlock groaned, his head tilted back against the pillows.  After a brief moment John released his hold on Sherlock’s cock, much to Sherlock’s chagrin, and pulled Sherlock’s pants the rest of the way down his legs.

And what fantastic, stunning legs Sherlock had.  They seemed to stretch out for miles as John drew his pants down and off, laying Sherlock completely bare and panting out on the bed before him like a veritable feast.  

“Fuck, you’re stunning.” John said, running his hands along the expanse of pale flesh on display before him.  Sherlock groaned as John slid his hands up the inside of his thighs and rubbed his thumbs at the crease of his groin.  His right hand moved to cup Sherlock’s balls and he rolled them in his palm for a moment as he reached over into the bedside drawer for a condom.  

When he got it out of the drawer, he ripped the package with his teeth as he continued to foddle Sherlock’s balls, occasionally reaching back to rub at Sherlock’s perineum. 

Sherlock was a writhing mess as John rolled the condom down his stiff prick and leaned forward to take Sherlock in his mouth.  

Sherlock bucked up into John’s mouth and John moved one hand to pin his hips to the bed to avoid being gagged as Sherlock started chanting his name.  John knew it wasn’t going to take much with how completely wound up Sherlock seemed to be, so he dipped his head forward, letting Sherlock’s cock press at the back of his throat and swallowed around the head of Sherlock’s cock a few times.

Sherlock keened and his fingers clawed at the sheets.  John slid his head back up Sherlock’s cock and worked the base with his hand as he licked and sucked at the head of Sherlock’s cock.   It couldn’t have been more than a few moments before Sherlock froze under his ministrations, panting and letting out soft “uhhn” sounds on every stroke.  John sank down on Sherlock’s cock once again, hollowed his cheeks, and sucked.  Sherlock let out a long groan as his cock pulsed and he came.  John worked him through his climax and pulled back when Sherlock started to seem too sensitive.  He pulled the condom off and tied it before tossing it into the garbage near the bed.

He moved up the bed and looked down at Sherlock where he was lying on the bed, mouth still open as he panted and stared into space.  John couldn’t help the grin and feeling of pride that expanded in his chest at the sight of Sherlock so completely undone in his bed.  While John waited for Sherlock to come back down to earth he pressed kisses to his cheeks and neck and forehead and essentially any part of him he could reach, all the while carding his fingers through Sherlock’s sweaty curls.

A few moments later Sherlock turned and looked at John, “That,” he said with a grin, “Was possibly the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced.” 

John chuckled and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, “I’m glad.”

Sherlock looked down between their bodies and saw John’s cock was standing hard and erect, tenting his pants.  He licked his lips, “What do you want?” Sherlock asked looking up into John’s eyes.  The look of openness he saw there nearly split John’s chest open.  “I’ll give you anything.” Sherlock said softly, but fervently, “Anything you want.”  

“A kiss?” John asked, because as desperate as he was to orgasm, as much as he longed for anything Sherlock wanted to give him, he wanted Sherlock’s lips on his even more.  He craved the intimacy and the tenderness which kissing could lend.  He needed it like he needed to breathe.  

Sherlock looked up at him, and John thought he would never tire of seeing Sherlock look at him under his eyelashes the way he was right now.  Sherlock reached up and wrapped his fingers in John’s hair and pulled John’s mouth down to his, pressing his lips to John’s and running his fingers down John’s neck and over his back once again.  

John couldn’t help but run his fingers along Sherlock’s face and through his curls, he was rapidly becoming addicted to everything about this incredible man.  

So distracted was he by his thoughts of how fantastic it was to kiss Sherlock that when Sherlock palmed John’s cock through his pants he was completely taken by surprise.  He groaned into Sherlock’s mouth and couldn’t help but thrust against Sherlock’s palm a bit as he tore his mouth away from Sherlock’s to pant, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s as he did because he couldn’t bear to lose this closeness.

“Oh good.” Sherlock said, with a smirk his voice.  “You are still interested.”

“Of course I’m bloody interested.” John said as he pulled back further to look at Sherlock’s face.  “How could I not be?  Just look at you.  You’re gorgeous.”

Sherlock blushed faintly and looked away.  John smiled fondly and stroked his fingers along his cheek softly before pressing another kiss to his lips.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked again when he pulled back from the kiss.

“Everything.” John said with a laugh.  “Anything.”  Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, slipping his hand inside of John’s pants and sliding his fingers up and down John’s erection teasingly without applying any sort of pressure.  John gasped at the feather-light touch; arousal building in the pit of his stomach.  “Just you.” John said sincerely.

“You’re a sap when you’re horny.” Sherlock said as he pushed John off of him and onto his back, dragging his pants down and off before straddling John’s hips and leaving his arse hovering over John’s aching cock.

“I’m a sap all the time.” John pointed out, his mind adding  _ when it comes to you _ as he rubbed his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs once more.  He groaned as Sherlock sank down and ground his arse against John’s cock.  “I’m rather fond of this position, I must say.” John panted out, his eyes roaming over Sherlock’s body. “You’re stunning.”

Sherlock shook his head but had a small smile on his face.  “Should I prepare myself?” he asked.

John raised an eyebrow at him, “Aren’t you too sensitive after you’ve orgasmed to have your prostate touched?”

Sherlock merely shrugged, “I’m sure I can manage.”

John laughed, “Or we could just do something else.  You’ve got a fantastic mouth and amazing hands.” John ran his hands down Sherlock’s thighs and over his calves before running his fingers along Sherlock’s feet, “Even lovely feet.” John said, “Although I have to admit, feet would be a first.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Sherlock said.  He reached back behind him, elongating his neck and torso in a graceful arch as he did and gripped John’s cock in his fist, stroking him firmly a few times.  After smearing precome around the head of John’s cock with his thumb he brought his digit to his mouth and sucked it into his mouth obscenely.

John couldn’t help the way his hips ground up against Sherlock’s arse at the sight, “Fuck. Sherlock.” 

Sherlock grinned cheekily at him, “Mouth it is.” 

Sherlock slid down his body with a ridiculous amount of grace and John groaned as he licked at the crease between his thigh and groin.  “Condoms are in the top drawer.” John panted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and licked a stripe up John’s cock and tongued at the head.  “Unnecessary.” he said, breathing hotly against the slit as he hunkered down more comfortably between John’s thighs.  “You’re a doctor, you have yourself tested every three months, and you never have unprotected sex.”

He sucked at the head and John groaned, having Sherlock's mouth directly on him was amazing and John almost came just at the thought of spilling inside of Sherlock's mouth.  None the less, he reached for the drawer and pulled out a condom and tossed it at him. “Condom, Sherlock.” he said again.

Sherlock pulled off and continued to stroke John’s erection with his long fingers, rubbing circles against his frenulum with his thumb.  “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“No.”

Sherlock sighed and opened the wrapper with his teeth before rolling it on.  “I give far better oral without a barrier.”

“Well be with me and only me and we can revisit the condom issue.” John said.  Sherlock stopped stroking John’s cock and his brain caught up with him, he glanced down at Sherlock.  “Sorry.  Sorry.” he said, internally wincing.  “Half of my blood supply is in my penis and not my brain.”

“Only half?” Sherlock asked with a smirk as he leaned back in and flicked his tongue against the head of John’s cock once more.  One of his hands continued to stroke John’s cock as his other slid down and cupped John’s balls.  

John reached down and brushed Sherlock’s curls back from his face.  Sherlock looked up at him, making eye contant as he continued to suck John’s cock.  “Fuck.” John groaned.  

Sherlock angled his head differently and proceeded to relax his throat and take John all the way to his root, sinking down on John’s cock until his nose was pressed into John’s public hair.  John’s hips jerked and he let out a strangled cry as Sherlock swallowed around John’s cock.  Sherlock slid off until just the head of John’s cock was resting on his tongue, wrapping his fingers around the shaft and stroking as he took a few deep breaths.  

Then he slid back down again and it was just as incredible as it had been the first time, hot and wet and tight and perfect.  And as Sherlock swallowed around him once more, he slid his fingers down, rubbing against his perineum before he reached John’s entrance and pressed his forefinger to it.  John shuddered at the mere thought of having part of Sherlock inside of him and Sherlock sucked harder around his length and John lost it.  He came hard, moaning Sherlock’s name as he did.

Sherlock pulled off to breathe but continued to stroke John’s cock until John was squirming with oversensitivity.  With one last lick, Sherlock pulled the condom off before tying it and binning it like its predecessor.  

John looked down at Sherlock; he looked unsure of himself as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was meant to go and if he was meant to still be there.  John’s heart positively ached.

“Come here.” John said, tenderness blooming in his chest.  Sherlock moved up to the top of the bed and laid down next to John stiffly, as though he still wasn’t entirely sure what he was meant to be doing.  John pulled him into his arms pressing kisses to his cheeks and nose, “That was fantastic.” John said, “You are fantastic.” he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, “And beautiful.” another kiss, “And perfect.” and another kiss.

Sherlock relaxed a bit against John and turned his head away to yawn.  When he finished yawning, John drew his mouth to his and kissed him once more, slowly and sweetly, waiting until Sherlock relaxed against him completely before pulling back to whisper “Stay.”  He stroked Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock nodded, letting his head sink down onto the pillow beside John, his eyes drifting closed.  John pressed one more sleepy kiss to Sherlock’s lips and closed his eyes to sleep as well, feeling more content than he could ever remember having felt in his life.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all once again for your wonderful responses. I'm so glad this fic has been enjoyed by so many people; I am so humbled by your kindness. <3 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, the end isn't too far off. Blessings!

_Sherlock_

Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered open, and he was met with the sight of John’s collarbone.  A small smile took over Sherlock’s lips despite his best efforts; he felt oddly buoyant, light and floaty almost like he’d taken drugs.  Moving carefully, he sat up and looked down at John.

If Sherlock thought that John was attractive while he was awake he was entirely unprepared for how he felt about how he looked when he slept. His hair was mussed and stuck up at odd angles, he had a crease on his cheek from his pillow, and his skin was warm and a bit rosy.  His nose was a bit crooked, his lips too thin, his eyelashes too blonde; in having his eyes closed he'd hidden what was arguably his best feature.  By all accounts he shouldn’t be attractive.  And yet, as he looked down at his face, Sherlock was sure he'd never seen anything that made him feel happier than this.  There was something about John when he was sleeping and all of his defenses were down that made Sherlock feel a bit giddy.  As quaint as it sounded, he was just one of those people who became beautiful because you cared about them.

He slept with abandon, the way a toddler would, his limbs splayed out across the bed, his arms wrapping around whatever he could reach.  Currently what he could reach was Sherlock and he hadn’t been joking when he said he clung to his bedmates in his sleep.  His right arm was still curled around Sherlock’s waist and anytime Sherlock moved a small frown line appeared between his eyebrows, marring his otherwise peaceful features.  Frowning, Sherlock thought that was probably an apt metaphor for his presence in John’s life.  A blip of tension in an otherwise peaceful existence.

His throat felt tight as he looked down at John and thought about the fact he was going to have to leave.  It had been a lovely night, the closest thing to a perfect night Sherlock could ever recall having.  He felt his heart stutter in his chest as remembered the way John had touched him and kissed him; John had been so gentle with him as though he were something beautiful, something precious. Sherlock had never expected another human being to treat him this way, the idea of such _tenderness_ being given freely to him threatened to overwhelm him once more.

But it couldn’t simply continue on this way.  They couldn’t pretend that nothing had happened between them or in their respective pasts the way they had last night.  Inevitably John would want to know about Victor and Sherlock’s “relationship.”  That conversation would undoubtedly be dragged out indefinitely as John would feel the need to doctor him and check his mental and emotional health.  Furthermore, John wouldn’t treat him the way he would treat any other partner because he knew about his past.  He’d handle him with kid’s gloves and it would force out hundreds of conversations all starting with the words, _‘Is this okay?’_ because he didn’t want to upset the equilibrium Sherlock’s brain had achieved.  

And then there was Sherlock’s history with drugs.  John was a doctor, surely he wouldn't simply let go of Sherlock’s drug addiction without anything further said on the matter.  There would always be a hint of suspicion, always a fear that Sherlock would relapse.  He had no doubt it would be the first thing to get thrown in his face when he and John got in a fight.  Because fighting was inevitable where Sherlock was concerned; he found himself being contrary at times simply because he was bored.  

Lastly, if Sherlock was being honest, there was the fact that he wasn’t sure he would be any good at this relationship lark.  In fact, he sincerely doubted he would be.  He wasn’t cut out for relationships; he wasn’t good or kind, he wasn’t handsome or caring.  He wasn’t any of the things that people looked for when they were looking for a partner.  Surely John saw that already and was just being kind.  There wasn’t anything about Sherlock that made him an ideal candidate for a real relationship.  He was brilliant, yes, but that in and of itself didn’t give him any inherent value where any relationship was concerned, his life had proven that.  And John didn’t need him for his mind.  He didn’t have anything he could give John.

It was better if he left John before he could realize it for himself.  It was kinder to let John have the good memories and not be dragged through all of the bad Sherlock seemed to carry with him.  Why wait for the inevitable crash?  He should get out while he could and save them both the heartache.

But what could it hurt to stay the rest of the night?  Maybe he could just stay cocooned in this warm, safe place for a little while longer.  Maybe he could just spend the rest of the night and forget about reality.  Maybe he could pretend a little while longer.  John would let him, it seemed John had wanted him to stay, perhaps he liked the imaginary world they’d built as well.  There was nothing stopping him from snuggling back down into John’s embrace and sleeping.

No, that was dangerous.  If he gave in and stayed now what was stopping him from doing the same in the morning?  He felt rather sure that John would try and convince him to stay and if that happened, how much harder would it be to leave then?

In fact Sherlock felt relatively certain that if he didn’t leave now he wouldn’t in the morning either.  A traitorous part of his mind, which Sherlock had tried to stomp out, asked why he couldn’t just try?  In this corner of his mind he could see what it would be like to wake up with John, to make breakfast together, to go out and eat at restaurants, to solve cases, to make love, and fall asleep together once more.  Then they would wake up and do it all again.  In his mind he could see his life stretching out before him this way.  He could see them having the same stupid domestics everyone had about milk or some other trivial nonsense.  He could see the two of them growing old together, retiring to some small town where John would continue to practice medicine and Sherlock would keep bees.

His heart ached at the thought of this sort of life, at imagining working and growing together in tandem.  He stroked his thumb along John’s cheek, he must be an incredible human if he even made Sherlock think there was some small part of him worthy of love.  Surely John could do so much better than him.  He probably had no shortage of admirers and people who would gladly settle down with him.  People who were kind, and beautiful, and funny.  People who weren’t quite so damaged.

No.  He couldn’t do this to John.  He couldn’t stay and subject John to the inevitable disaster their lives would become.  

Mind made up, he pressed a soft kiss to John’s forehead and carefully disentangled himself from John’s arms.  He was pulling on his pants when he heard John’s voice from the bed behind him and winced.

“Where’re you going?” he asked, his voice sleepy and rough.

Sherlock turned back to the bed to look at John, he looked adorable; his hair was sleep mussed and his eyes were still half mast.  “Loo.” Sherlock lied, speaking softly trying to sooth John back to sleep.

John nodded and reached out to pull Sherlock toward him once more, “Kiss.” he demanded, his eyes closed.

Sherlock couldn’t fight the small smile on his face, nor could he help the bloom of affection in his chest.  He leaned in and pressed his lips to John’s softly.  John sighed contentedly against his lips and reached up a hand to stroke Sherlock’s cheek and curls.

Sherlock’s chest felt like it was going to explode as he pulled back from John.  He was tempted to just use the loo and climb back in bed, forget all the things he’d just thought about and decisions he’d just made.

John tugged him back once more and pressed another kiss to his lips, “Hurry back.” he said with a yawn.  His eyes closed once more and his body relaxed into the bed.

Sherlock went into the bathroom and splashed a bit of water on his face, maybe waking up a bit would help him be rational.  He glanced up into the mirror and felt his hackles rise; his shoulders curled in on themselves as words and all of their baggage hit him again.  

He _had_ to leave, there was no choice.  This was a moment stolen from someone else’s life, from someone else’s happiness.  It didn’t belong to Sherlock.  Besides, if he left now he could keep this moment pure and lovely, untainted by whatever would happen to the two of them in the future.

He went back to the main room and pulled his trousers and shirt on, listening to John’s soft snores as he slept.  Being as quiet as he could he slipped out into the night, quite sure he would never see John Watson again.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter from Wendell's point of view... I hope it doesn't feel too jarring for anyone, but wanted to give you a heads up about what was coming, lest you be caught off guard and confused. 
> 
> Secondly, a huge thank you must be given to my dear friend dreamsindigita1 who has allowed me to ramble endlessly at her about so many things pertaining to this work. I fear I would have gotten quite stuck in my own head were it not for her kindness.
> 
> Lastly, thank you to each lovely person who has left their thoughts and encouragement on this work. Your kindness means more than I can say.

_Wendell_

Wendell was bored.  This was not as dangerous a thing as it was when either of his brothers were bored but history had proven his boredom was not a thing to be trifled with either.  Currently, his boredom was only serving to fuel his irritation.

It had been seven months since he had been incarcerated and he’d found what served to soothe his boredom best was doing a bit of writing.  Writing had provided an outlet, an escape of sorts, from the cell which was currently his dwelling place.  He could create a daring hero who could vanquish any threat; he'd built an entire world where the fight was actually able to be won, in spite of the odds.  A world where good triumphed over evil, a place where peace and equality reigned.  He had grown rather fond of his characters and of this world.

As fate would have it, today was the day his guards had decided to confiscate his manuscript to have it read lest he be writing anything which detailed a dastardly scheme against Her Majesty the Queen.  In spite his countless protests that the manuscript before them was merely a work of fiction the guards had ignored him and taken it with them.  Needless to say, he found himself without his manuscript, outline, or timeline and thus was at a bit of a standstill in his work.

Irritation at his captors did not bode well for the peaceful thoughts he was attempting to culminate where his brother was concerned.  Despite what he told Sherlock, Wendell found himself struggling to forgive Mycroft for the role he had played in his imprisonment.  He knew it wouldn't help, being angry with Mycroft wouldn't make him feel better.  And of course he knew Mycroft regretted his actions, he knew Mycroft was sorry it had come to this but he wasn’t sure that given the opportunity Mycroft wouldn’t do the exact same thing again.  On good days, he could give Mycroft the benefit of the doubt but today was not a good day.  Regrettably, he had the feeling he was overdue for a visit from his elder brother.

As though his thoughts had summoned him, he heard the swish of trousers and that godforsaken umbrella Mycroft had toted around with him since adolescence like a security blanket.  Heaven forbid it rain and Mycroft’s hair get wet, how could he possibly survive the humiliation of people knowing he had naturally curly hair?  Wendell snorted in amusement at his own snarkiness.

He remained seated on his bed with his back against the wall but turned his head to watch Mycroft’s progress.  A guard unlocked the door and let Mycroft in, Mycroft nodded, “I’ll summon you when I am ready to leave.  You may go.”

The guard nodded and stalked back off down the hallway.  “Greetings, brother.” Wendell said.

Mycroft turned to look at him and the mask he wore so well in front of everyone, including Sherlock, slipped a bit and Wendell saw how weary he was.  He felt the irritation he’d been harboring slip away, he budged over and patted the bed beside him.  Wordlessly Mycroft made his way over and sat down, pressing his side fully against Wendell.

“I’m worried about him.” Mycroft said softly.

Wendell nodded, “But he’s doing better, isn’t he?” he asked, hopefully.  “The last time we spoke you said he’d moved out and was living on his own.  He’s made friends with some detective, yes?  And you did what you could to ensure the detective would continue to see him?”

“I tried.” Mycroft said, “But the detective wouldn’t hear a word from me; he thought I was trying to bribe him.”

“Were you?”

“The words ‘Detective Inspector’ might have been used.” Mycroft said with a sniff.

Wendell laughed, “Well, it’s good to know there are still some honest men out there.”

“Yes.” Mycroft said, “He told me he had no need of a promotion he hadn’t earned.  He’d continue to see Sherlock and let Sherlock help because he was ‘A good kid under it all with a good head on his shoulders.’” he said, dropping his voice and picking up an almost cockney lilt for the last part.

Wendell chuckled, “Good for him.  So what’s the problem?  You said Sherlock stopped doing drugs at that fellow’s insistence.  What was his name?  Graham? George?”

“Gregory Lestrade.” Mycroft said and Wendell could hear him roll his eyes just by the tone of his voice.

“Right.  So what’s the problem?”

“I fear he took the news of your appeal being denied rather badly.”

Wendell had anticipated the court’s response but Sherlock was ever the optimist, even if he didn’t want to believe it of himself.  “Has he taken up drugs again?”

Mycroft shook his head, “I paid off all of the drug dealers I could find in London not to sell to him and tell him it was Victor who had paid them off.”

“That was clever, Myc.” Wendell said.

Mycroft inclined his head, “I’m worried because it’s three in the morning and he just left Dr. Watson’s flat.”

“He was in John’s flat at this hour?” Wendell asked, surprised.  “Well, good for him." Wendell paused, still unsure what it was that Mycroft was worried about.  When no response from Mycroft was forthcoming he said, "From what you’ve told me, he’s a good man who truly cares about Sherlock.”

“I believe he is.” Mycroft confirmed.  

"Then I'm afraid I fail to see what the problem is." 

“What worries me is that Sherlock left at this time of night and went straight to find a drug dealer.”

"Ah." Wendell sighed, he wasn’t quite sure what Mycroft had expected.  Sherlock was undoubtedly feeling vulnerable and like he had nowhere to go; his emotions were probably tearing him to shreds and he had no one to talk to.

“I just don’t know what to do.  He’s living in this terrible flat, he’s only going to classes about once a week and failing most of them, he just seems so alone.” Mycroft said with a helpless shrug.  “And being alone is hard for him, no matter how many times I’ve told him it will serve him better in the end.”

“Well not everyone is like you, Mycroft.” Wendell said, “Some people need to be able to socialize.  Some people need companionship.  It might not be the worst thing in the world for you either.  You should try it some time.”

Mycroft snorted, “Unlikely.  Average minds are so dull, so vacant; it’s like moving through sledge every time one attempts a conversation.”

“You’d be surprised the things you can learn from those vacant minds when you give them a chance.  I’ve found that great men are not commonly great scholars, nor are great scholars particularly great men.”

“Ever the philosopher.” Mycroft said with an impatient sigh, “But I fear that leaves us no closer to a solution for our brother.”

“Have you stopped to consider what it is that draws him to Dr. Watson?”

Mycroft shrugged, “He was kind to him, with Sherlock it usually takes little else.  Pay him a bit of attention and he’ll give you anything you want; solve any problem, crack any code.  He’ll do anything for the chance that someone could love him.”

“Ah. My dear brother, I believe you have stumbled upon your answer." Wendell said, _"Love_ is the master key that opens the gates of happiness, of hatred, of jealousy, but most easily of all the gate of fear.”

“Of _fear.”_ Mycroft said with a sneer, “What are you on about?”

Wendell sighed, “Are you really so inept at human emotion, Mycroft?  Yes. _Fear._  Of course he’s afraid.  He has no frame of reference for what is happening right now.  He just dragged himself out of a relationship in which he was constantly told he wasn't good enough, that he had no value both with words and actions.  Furthermore, the world as he knew it completely imploded less than seven months ago when one of his brothers sent his other brother to prison because of an essay on peace and equality in conjunction with a few lines of computer code.”

“A few lines of computer code that could have brought the modern world to its knees.” Mycroft interrupted.

“For goodness sake, I’d written the essay six years ago; it was about our economy and the complete disparage between our world and say La Chureca, for example.  And I never had any intention of using the computer code to hack your bloody banking system; it was merely an exercise to alleviate my boredom and see if it could be managed.  Although God knows an even distribution of wealth might go a long way to solving our world’s problems.” Wendell felt himself getting irritated once more, “If your bloody queen can’t see that then maybe someone should bring it to her attention.”

Mycroft sighed, “Can we please not do this?”

“Not do what, Mycroft?  Not talk about why I’m here?”

“I just want to help Sherlock.” he said.

Wendell leaned his head back against the wall and blew out a gust of air, trying to push his irritation out with his breath.  “I don’t think there’s anything we can do.” Wendell said.  “I think this is one problem he has to solve for himself.”

“There has to be something.” Mycroft said, shaking his head.  “There has to be.”

“You’re working so hard to atone, Mycroft.  He’ll come around on his own.  Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even six months from now but eventually he’ll see reason, you’ve got your whole lives to work out this dispute.  How long could he possibly view you as his arch nemesis before he finds real fault in the world?”

“I’m not trying to atone for anything.” Mycroft said loftily.  

Wendell hummed, suddenly too tired to fight any longer; what was the point of trying to get Mycroft to admit he’d had an emotional response to something?  Better still, what was the point of trying to get Mycroft to admit he’d been wrong.

“I wasn’t wrong.” Mycroft said.  “I know it’s what you’re thinking.  But I wasn’t wrong, you could have destroyed everything we hold dear.  I did what I had to do for our country.”

Wendell sighed, “I’m glad you feel that way.  I’d hate to try to sleep if I were you and didn’t believe that.”

“Of course, I’m sorry that it put you here.” Mycroft said softly.  

“I know.” Wendell replied.

“But you could have come and worked for the government," Mycroft offered for what had to have been the dozenth time, still with a hint of hope in his words.  "That’s what the Americans do when they find someone as brilliant as you working against them.  They put them to work for the CIA or FBI.”

Wendell shook his head, “Definitely not.  I’d rather sit in a cell, to be honest, than work for that which is destroying our world with its greed and selfishness.”

“Then there is nothing I can do to help you.” Mycroft said.

“I know.” Wendell replied.  “But I won’t sell the freedom of my soul in exchange for the freedom of my flesh.”

“Perhaps you should consider the fact that from within these walls you have no means of providing any aid whatsoever to the people living in rubbish heaps their entire lives or whatever else it is that your bleeding heart longs to set right.  If you came and worked for the government you would have the ability to effect _real_ change.” Mycroft paused as though he were trying to collect himself, to put all of his emotions in check before he spoke.  “And I may have sold my soul, as the two of you so eloquently put it, but I did it because I believe in the change I can achieve this way.”

“I know you do, Myc.” Wendell said.  “And I believe in you, too.”  He reached over and took Mycroft’s hand in his and gave it a small squeeze.  “Truth is tough, it won’t break like a bubble.  You can kick it around all day like a football and it will still be round and full at evening.  We are all working at truth in our own way, Myc.  Sherlock is just trying to find what that means for him still.”

“You know, you’re the only person I let get away with calling me that atrocity.”

Wendell chuckled, “I’ve called you that my entire life, I can’t imagine stopping now.”

“Nor can I.” Mycroft replied.  He looked down at his watch, “I fear I must be going, my associates will be worried by how long I’ve been absent.”

“Don’t let me keep you.” Wendell said.

“Goodbye, brother dearest.” Mycroft said softly.

“Goodbye.  Keep an eye on Sherlock for me.” Wendell replied, “And look after yourself as well.”

Mycroft stood with a nod, “I will.  I’ll be back to visit soon.”

“I look forward to it.” he said, then added, “Bring me some yarn next time.  No one’s brought me anything to do knitting with in ages.”

Mycroft looked around, “I brought you fifty skeins of it the first time I visited and have subsequently had another twenty delivered each month.  And I know for a fact Mummy brought you another dozen just last week.  What have you done with it all?” he asked incredulously.

“I made blankets for the other inmates, of course.” Wendell replied.  “What else was I meant to do with it?”

Mycroft shook his head, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

Mycroft left the cell and Wendell was left feeling a bit more peaceful than he had before his brother’s visit.  He was excited to see the life Sherlock was making for himself now that he was finally stepping out on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Wendell's lines are actually paraphrases of some things Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. actually said; just in case anyone finds themselves curious.
> 
> Secondly, La Chureca in Nicaragua is an actual place; it is literally a 4 mile long garbage dump site. People are born, live their lives, and die there. The disparity between what first world countries have and what these people have breaks my heart. So there's my tiny humanitarian plug for something which makes my heart ache in real life.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, darlings! Thank you all so very much for your kind words. I know I say it at the beginning of every chapter, it seems, but I cannot express my gratitude for all of the encouragement and all of the wonderful things people have said in any other way. You are all such lovely people and I cannot thank you enough.
> 
> Secondly, as ever, a special thank you to my dear friend dreamsindigita1 who is ever encouraging me and listening to me ramble with such cheerfulness. :) Her kindness and enthusiasm for this work has been such a blessing to me.
> 
> There are a couple of notes at the end of the chapter about a few things that might not be common knowledge.

_John_

John Watson _loved_ the morning after.  He loved waking up in a mess of tangled limbs, he loved the sleepy kisses, he loved the bit of insecurity and shyness that the morning light brought.  He loved soft kisses and easy love making.  He loved eating breakfast together.  He loved showering together.  Suffice it to say there was not a single part of the morning after that John didn’t enjoy.

Truthfully, John had been looking forward to waking up with Sherlock this morning before he’d even fallen asleep the night before.  There was just something so vibrant and breathtaking about Sherlock all the time, even when he was running around chasing criminals like a madman. (Perhaps especially then.)  But John hadn’t been able to wipe the morning Sherlock had made pancakes with him from his mind.  He’d been radiant and lovely that morning, almost ethereal.  John had looked forward to seeing his sleep mussed curls, that soft smile he sometimes gave before he got his defenses up.  He’d longed for the soft, sleepy kisses interspersed with easy grins.  

There were no words to express his disappointment upon waking to find his bed empty.  His first thought was that perhaps Sherlock had merely gone to use the loo, he glanced at the clock, it was only 6:30; maybe they could nap a bit longer before they started their day.  He’d closed his eyes and waited patiently for Sherlock to return so he could resume cuddling him.  

When it had seemed an unreasonable amount of time for him to not hear a single noise from Sherlock, he opened his eyes and looked at the clock again, 6:34.  Frowning, he climbed out of bed and slipped into his bathrobe hanging from his bedpost.  He padded to the bathroom door, calling out for Sherlock as he went.  When there was no response, John knocked on the door before pushing it open to find the bathroom empty as well.

He looked around his flat and saw that it was indeed devoid of any of the personal effects Sherlock had on him when he’d entered the flat the previous evening.  He stomped over to his nightstand and picked up his phone, shooting off a text before he could think better of it.   **_Where are you?_ **  

The response was almost instantaneous.   **At my flat.  Why?  Where are you?  Given the time of day, I would assume this is the customary place for one to be.-SH**

John grumbled to himself, it was too bloody early for this.  Surely, Sherlock didn’t think it was _customary_ to leave in the middle of the night without a word while your bedmate was still asleep.   **_I’m in my flat, where I had assumed you would be as well at 6:30 in the morning._ **

**Well, you know what they say about when one assumes things....-SH**

**_Ha. Ha.  Where can we meet?  We need to talk._ **

**We really don’t.-SH**

This was unbelievable.  John was all but fuming.  In what world was it acceptable to sleep with someone and disappear before a word had been spoken?  Did Sherlock think this was a one night stand?  Surely, with all his deductive genius he’d realized John wanted more than a one night.  And weren't they past the point where two people could reasonably have a one night stand and never speak again?

**_Meet me for breakfast?_ **

**Not hungry.-SH**

**_Coffee?_ **

There was no response and John bit at his thumbnail, wondering if what he was about to say next was pushing it too far.  Well never let it be said John Watson was a coward, he typed out the message and hit send before he could take it back.   **_Don’t make me call your creepy brother who seems to know everything about you and ask him where I can find you._ **

**You wouldn’t-SH**

He wouldn’t, but he wasn’t sure Sherlock would be willing to take that risk.   **_Try me._ **

**Fine.  Half an hour.  Meet me at Ziferblat.  You’re paying.-SH**

Ziferblat was clever as it meant the longer they stayed to talk the more money John would owe at the end of the visit.  But at £1.80 per person per hour it wasn’t really a terribly effective deterrent as far as John was concerned.

 **_Forty five minutes._ ** John sent back, he could practically feel Sherlock rolling his eyes at the text.

**I do have other things to do today.-SH**

**_It’s only 7 in the morning.  You’ll still have plenty of time when we’re done talking._ **

**_I’m also free for lunch or dinner if you’d prefer._ **

**_Also free for drinks tonight._ **

**You’re irritatingly persistent.-SH**

**_It’s part of my charm._ **

**Tea should be sufficient.  Forty-five minutes.-SH**

**_It’s a date._ **

John set his phone back on the nightstand and got in the shower.  He got ready quickly, putting on a pair of denims and a soft jumper, more to soothe himself than for any other reason.  As he got ready he tried to plan out what he was going to say, but nothing seemed to be willing to cement itself in his mind.  There were so many things he wanted to say, so many questions he wanted to ask.  In truth, the two of them were long overdue for a real conversation.   

By the time he reached Ziferblat his mind was buzzing with things he longed to talk about but he still hadn’t decided on any plan for where to start. He checked his watch as he opened the door, he was a few minutes early, but when he glanced around before grabbing his own timer he saw Sherlock was already sitting at a table in the corner sipping at a cup of tea and devouring a monstrous plate of biscuits.

When he’d gotten his own cup of coffee and a few biscuits he carried them to the table Sherlock was sitting at and sat down.  Suddenly, in spite of all the words buzzing around in his head, he was a bit at a loss for what to say.  He wanted to tell Sherlock that he looked handsome in the purple button up shirt that he was wearing.  He wanted to tell him that he smelled amazing.  He wanted to ask Sherlock to come back to his flat.  He wanted to tell him last night had been incredible.  “Good morning.” was what came out.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, “That’s what you’re going to lead with?” he asked critically.

John shrugged and took a sip of his coffee, “Seems _customary._  The other things I would normally say following a night like last night are better left for a bedroom than a public cafe.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I’m surprised you’re drinking coffee rather than tea.  I would have expected you would need something to calm you this morning rather than rile you up further.”

The only thing riling him up, John thought, was Sherlock’s detachment and icy exterior.  “It’s a habit from the hospital.”

Sherlock inclined his head and ate another biscuit, clearly waiting for John to make the next move.

Was he meant to take all of the initiative?  “Don’t you have anything you want to say me?”

“Clearly you think I ought to.  What did you have in mind?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.” John said sarcastically.  “Maybe an explanation for why you left in the middle of the night without a word?”

“I was under the impression I was free to leave whenever I chose.  Was I wrong in my assumption?” Sherlock asked mildly.

“Of course you were free to leave.” John spluttered, Sherlock’s cavalier attitude only serving to frustrate him further.  He took a breath and leaned back from the table for a moment, trying to remain calm.  “I just don’t understand why you wanted to.”

“As I said, I have things to do this morning.”

“Name them.” John challenged, and even if it was a petty, childish thing to say he had the sneaking suspicion that 'having something to do this morning' was not the real reason for Sherlock's absence in his bed when he'd awoken.

Sherlock looked taken aback, as though he hadn’t anticipated that being what John was going to ask.  His mouth opened and closed for a moment as he floundered to make something up.

“Look," John began, saving him the trouble of fibbing, "If you just didn’t want to stay or if you simply don’t want to be with me, just say so.  I’m a big boy, I can handle it.” John said.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, so John continued.

“But I don’t think that’s what it was either, was it?” he shook his head in exasperation.  “Am I crazy?  Am I the only one here who feels like there’s something that could be amazing between us?  That you and I would be fantastic together?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John’s and in the first real display of emotion this morning Sherlock said, “You don’t actually know me.  You have no idea what I am capable of.”

John laughed, not a happy laugh, but one full of frustration for this bloody impossible situation, for this impossible man. “That may be true but I do know the times I feel most alive are the times I spend with you.  I do know that I feel happiest when I’m with you.  It seems like you enjoy having me around, too.  I’m not sure what else is required for entering a relationship with someone.”

“Is that what you thought last night was?  The start of a relationship?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t know.  Maybe.” John shrugged.  “I certainly didn’t think it would lead to an empty bed this morning.”

“You flatter yourself, Dr. Watson.  I’m not sure you were that grand of a bedmate.” Sherlock replied.

It was like a slap across the face and John found himself frozen in his chair.  “Dr. Watson?” he spluttered.  “Is that what we’re back to?”  And it wasn’t so much Sherlock’s insinuation that the sex had been bad that upset him.  He knew it hadn’t been, he was quite adept at reading his lovers.  John could remember Sherlock’s reactions quite clearly, even now he could see his face and hear his voice.  He could hear the way Sherlock had said his name, feel the way Sherlock had touched him.  Sherlock may be a superb actor but he wasn’t that good.  No, what bothered John most was the fact that Sherlock had called him Dr. Watson.  

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder, “It’s your name.”

“No.” John said pointing a finger at Sherlock and shaking his head.  “You’re not saying Dr. Watson because it’s my name.  You’re saying it because you want to distance yourself from me.  You want this to feel impersonal.”

“It’s not personal.” Sherlock replied.  “You were just a shag and if I’d know it was going to be this much trouble I would have skipped it all together.”

“Right.” John said, pulling out his wallet.  “I understand that you went through a terrible ordeal with that arsehole who thought you were his personal punching bag.  You are entitled to process that however you need to, I don’t begrudge people the time they need to heal and recoup.  And I am more than willing to be an ear to listen and a shoulder for you to lean on.  In fact, I would like nothing better than to help you move on and forget about your prick of an ex.”

John tossed a handful of notes on the table to pay for Sherlock to stay as long as he wanted to and continued, “But you aren’t the only person in the world who’s been through a load of shite.” He stood from his chair and looked at Sherlock, squaring his shoulders he said, “I decided a long time ago I wasn’t going to be someone’s punching bag and I sure as hell am not going to be yours.  When you’re ready to _actually_ talk to me about what’s going on with you, you know where to find me.”

He drained his cup of coffee and said, “Enjoy your tea and whatever it is you needed to do this morning.” and with that he turned and paid the barista and left the cafe.

John started walking along on the sidewalk with nowhere particular to go.  He just needed to walk off some of his frustration and he was quite certain he was mumbling to himself along the way.  So deep in thought was John that he was taken by surprise by the black car that pulled up and stopped next to him.  At first he continued walking, assuming it must have merely been a coincidence.

"Dr. Watson?" A voice called from within the car.

He turned, "Yes?"

A man wearing a black suit stepped out of the car and held the door open, "Please come with me, sir."

John laughed, his frustration making him feel dangerous; his fists clenched unconsciously at his sides. "That's not going to happen."

He turned and began to walk away when his mobile rang and he pulled out the phone hoping, in spite of himself, that it was Sherlock.  He was disappointed.

"Answer the phone please, sir." the man behind him said.

"This is unbelievable." John grumbled but he answered the phone none the less, "Yes?"

"Good morning, Dr. Watson. Please get in the car."

"Who is this?" John asked.

There was an audible sigh on the other end of the phone, "Mycroft Holmes, I presume you remember our meeting.  I really don't have time to chat this morning; there's a crisis happening in Russia.  Get in the car."

John violently hit the end call button on his mobile and continued on his walk. He wasn't getting in any bloody car just because a bloody Holmes told him to. He heard the door close and the car start again and felt a vindictive sort of pleasure that at least someone else was having as difficult a morning as he was.

He was wrong.  The car was just following him.  He walked another 5 blocks and the car continued to crawl along next to him.  He turned and glared at the man in the car, "You're just going to keep following me, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"What if I called the police?"

The man smirked and looked over the top of his sunglasses at him, "Do you really think that would be effective, sir?"

John sighed and got into the car. "Where are you taking me?"

The man said nothing and John groaned and thumped his head back against the seat. This day was nothing like what he'd hoped it would be and it was only 8:45. According to the plans John had imagined last night, he and Sherlock shouldn't even be out of bed yet. He crossed his arms, feeling a bit like a petulant child and waited.

They drove on for some indeterminable amount of time with John sulking in the back seat.  He was silent until he recognized where they were, "Are you taking me to a prison?" John asked incredulously, watching as they approached what definitely appeared to be a prison.  Rationally John knew there was no way he could be sent to jail merely for having sex with someone’s brother, but Mycroft didn’t seem terribly rational where his brother was concerned.

“Do you have any firearms or weapons on your person, sir?”

“What?” John asked, “No.  Of course not.  I met up with Sherlock for coffee.  What possible reason could I have for carrying a weapon with me?”

“My employer specifically asked me to enquire about you right pocket, tucked in beside your wallet.  He was under the impression you’d be carrying a pocket knife with you, sir.” the man said.

With a put upon sigh, John reached into his back pocket and pulled out the pocket knife, “It’s hardly a weapon.” he said placing it none too gently into the man’s outstretched palm.

“I’m afraid the people checking you in for your visit would not agree with you.”

“My visit?  What are you on about?” John asked, when the man didn’t respond John said, “You do realize this is all completely mental, don’t you?”  Again the man didn’t respond, he merely continued driving in through the security gate, handing his badge to the man at the gate and waiting while it was checked and handed back with a nod.

“One more thing, Dr. Watson,” the man driving the car said, “You were never here.  My employer never brought you to visit the man you are visiting.  This is entirely off the records; should this information be made public for any reason, materials will be found on your computer hard drive resulting in your immediate incarceration.  Do you understand?”

“Who am I visiting?” John asked.

“I’m not at liberty to say.  But if you don’t agree to these terms you won’t be allowed in to see the prisoner.”

“You’re not at liberty to tell me who I am going to see.  Right.  This is ludicrous.” John grumbled.  This sounded just like the government.  “Yes.  Alright, fine.  I agree to your terms.  I was never here to visit the person I probably never even knew existed before today.”

“Excellent.” the man said.  “You’re starting to get the hang of this, sir.” he said as he pulled into a garage and climbed out, opening John’s door for him.

“You do know tacking ‘Sir’ onto the end of your sentences doesn’t make them any less cheeky, don’t you?”

The man gave him a small half smile, “I do.  But not everyone I pick up sees it that way. Sir.”

John shook his head, “Let’s dispense with the ‘sirs,’ if you don’t mind.  Take me wherever it is I’m meant to be going, to see whomever it is I’m meant to be seeing and then let me go home.”

“Right this way, Sss- Dr. Watson.” the man said, leading him toward a set of glass doors.

“John.” John corrected, “You can call me John.  I think I’ve had quite enough of being called Dr. Watson today.  Never thought I’d get tired of that title when they gave it to me with my PhD.  Just goes to show you, you should never underestimate a Holmes.”

The man snorted, “You aren’t wrong about that.

“What’s your name, then?” John asked following him through the door and emptying his pockets at the counter.

“Ummm.  Ares.” the man replied.  

John looked over at him, “Right.  Well this morning has been a pleasure, _Ares.”_ The Greek god of war indeed; John supposed he was fit enough to hold his own in a fight.

They stepped through a metal detector  and John was patted down by a security guard.  After the security guard cleared him, Ares showed him to a booth with a clear bulletproof window separating him from whomever he was meeting and said, “I’ll be outside when you’re done.” and left him.

John sat and fidgeted with the sleeve of his jumper, this morning had been entirely surreal.  Maybe he was still sleeping and would wake to find he’d had some terrible nightmare, maybe he’d wake to find Sherlock still curled up in his bed and his morning could proceed the way he’d wanted it to from the beginning.

He heard the door on the other side of the glass open and looked up to see a tall, gangly man with dark hair, and pale skin step through.  He looked very much like an older version of Sherlock but with glasses and facial hair.  

The man gave him a genuine smile and John found himself liking the man in spite of his own terrible mood.  The man on the other side of the window picked up his phone and John did the same.

“Hello, you must be Dr. Watson.  It’s so good to finally meet you, I confess I wasn’t expecting to meet you today or I would have made myself a bit more presentable."  He gave a shrug, "Thank you for coming, none the less.”

“I wasn’t aware I was being given a choice.” John retorted.  “Please call me John.”

The man frowned for a moment then his face cleared up, “This must be Mycroft’s doing.  My apologies.  My brother can be a bit...” he paused as though searching for a word.  “Well, I’m not really sure what the word is.  Socially inept?  Perhaps?  But he means well.” he paused again, then added, “For the most part.”

“Right.  So, I’m not sure who exactly you are?” John said.

“Oh!” the man said, smiling once more, “My apologies, John.  My name is Wendell Holmes.  I’m the second Holmes brother.  Forgive me for not shaking your hand.” he said with a grin that John couldn't help but return.

“I wasn’t aware there were three of you.”

“Yes, I imagine Sherlock doesn’t talk about either of us much.  I don’t think that used to be the case but he blames Mycroft for my imprisonment and, well, he probably doesn’t want to relive my incarceration by talking about me.  Not to mention a good chunk of my trial falls under national secrecy laws.”

“So what are you in prison for?  If you don't mind me asking.”

“Oh." Wendell said, as though he somehow hadn't expected that to be the question John was going to ask.  "Well, I wrote a bit of computer code that could hack any bank in the world.  And once, when I was at University, I wrote an essay about the economic and social disparities between first and third world countries; it was about an even distribution of wealth, really, and what that might make the world look like.  Apparently when those two unrelated moments were strung together it was enough to get me convicted of conspiracy.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say you wrote computer code that could hack _any_ bank.” John asked, feeling a bit as though he were indeed Alice fallen through the looking glass.

“Well, I wasn’t planning on using it.” Wendell said with a sigh.  “I was bored.”

John laughed, “What on earth did your parents feed the three of you when you were children?”

Wendell looked a bit surprised by his reaction and chuckled, “Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you.  I think they are just as mistified by us as anyone, truth be told.  I imagine when you meet them you will find them surprisingly ordinary.”  Wendell shook his head, “But listen to me prattling on about things that don’t really matter.  I’m glad to meet you John, I’ve heard so many good things.”

“From whom?” John asked, surprised.  

“My brothers of course.  Mycroft has significantly more to say, but I dare say you wouldn’t appreciate the methods he’s gone to in order that he might learn whether you were a suitable companion for my brother.  He’s shared nothing untoward of course, but I rather think breaking into your academic, criminal, and military records was going a bit far.”

“Oh my god.” John murmured, completely at a loss for how much information from his past Mycroft had access to.

“Yes.  Mycroft does tend to have that effect on people.” Wendell said sympathetically, “But, what he had to say was of far less consequence than what Sherlock had to say.  Or rather, all the things he didn't have to say; that was the most enlightening bit.”

John shook his head, in for a penny in for a pound as they say, “What did Sherlock have to say?”

Wendell smiled at him, “Well, as I said, it was just as much about what he didn’t say.  He’s quite taken with you John.”

“He has a funny way of showing it.” John grumbled.

“Ah.” Wendell said with a sympathetic wince.  “You’ve spoken with him this morning, haven’t you?”

“Well, I think spoken with him is a rather strong parallel to draw for the lack of real conversation we've just had.”

“That would explain why Mycroft sent you here.  It must have gone pretty badly if he thinks Sherlock needs a mediator.”

John rolled his eyes, “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, really, it’s nice... well, and a bit creepy to be honest, that Mycroft keeps such a close eye on his brother; but it's nice that you are so willing to come to his defense.  But I don’t need someone to advocate for him.” John sighed, “I really like Sherlock.  I think he’s an incredible person, I would be happy just to be friends with him and tag along on his crazy adventures.  I don’t need anything from him other than an acknowledgement that I matter in some way.”

John looked at Wendell, “I _know_ he’s been through hell with that complete wanker he dated.  I know the toll relationships like that take on a person’s mental and emotional health.  I don’t need him to be perfect.  I don’t need him to be sweet and nice all the time, although I think he’d find it easier than he imagines it to be when it’s directed at someone who cares about him.  I just need him to talk to me about what the actual problems are instead of hiding behind the walls he builds up to keep other people out.”

Wendell started to speak but John held up a hand and continued, sure Wendell was getting ready to tell him exactly why those walls had been built in the first place. “And I know those walls are only there because people have been so cruel to him.  I imagine with a mind as incredible as his he’s struggled with cruelty his entire life.  But I can’t have any sort of relationship, be it a simple friendship or something more, with someone who can’t be honest with me.”

John exhaled and sat back in his chair, looking down at the table in front of him and waiting for the inevitable wave of criticism for his insensitivity.

Instead Wendell said, “Bravo, John.”

John looked up at him once more, surprised.

“No, truly.” Wendell said.  “That was well said and you have a good deal more insight into my brother than I think I’ve ever seen someone apart from Mycroft or myself have.  I think you are far more clever than people give you credit for.” Wendell smiled at him, “Have you read about Gardner’s Theory of Multiple Intelligences?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, in short, it says that there are different ways for people to be intelligent.  Howard Gardner postulates that how much knowledge you can cram into your mind is only one way of measuring intelligence.  He thought that IQ testing was not an accurate representation of a person as whole with regards to their intelligence.  Mind you my brothers and I scored incredibly high on those sort of tests, but I think one of my brothers’ weaknesses is that they forget there are other ways people can be clever in their own right.  Especially when they themselves are so lacking in that sort of intelligence.”  Wendell waved his hand, “Forgive me.  I’m a bit of a rambler, that was my roundabout way of attempting to compliment you.”

“It’s fine.” John replied with a grin.  "Thank you."  After the rant he’d just unleashed on Wendell who was he to judge.

“If there is one thing I might ask?”

John nodded at him.

“Based on the way you talked about abuse and it's effect on the human psyche, I’m guessing you were abused as a child.” he said softly, as though this knowledge were something that hurt him personally.  “And Sherlock doesn’t know.”

John swallowed and nodded once, “I got knocked around a bit when I got older but it was worse for my mum and sister.”

“Forgive me if this seems insensitive, but was that the reason you reacted as strongly and protectively toward Sherlock as you did?”

“No.” John said fiercely, and perhaps he was all the more adamant because these were words he’d meant to say to Sherlock a thousand times over but had never found a way.  “I hate seeing people who are in situations like his.  It makes me sick to think of people who claim to love another person committing that sort of atrocities against them; physically, mentally, and emotionally, it doesn't matter it wreaks devastation and it crushes people's spirits.  It is the ultimate betrayal of trust and I can’t imagine a more grievous offense.”

John shook his head then continued, “My past may have shaped how I view abuse cases but it wasn’t the same with Sherlock as it was with every other victim of abuse I’d had come through my door.  Something about him just stuck in my mind and I just wanted to help him; he seemed so very alone and I felt such a strong connection to him.  It probably sounds strange, but it seemed like I was the only person who’d ever connected with him the way we did.  God, he was brilliant,” John said, shaking his head and remembering back to the first time they’d met.  “Even high as a kite, he’s the most brilliant person I’ve ever met.  And he’s got this great sense of humor that no one seems to see.  And he’s stunning; with that dark hair and fair skin and those bloody cheek bones.”  John shook his head, flushing a bit at rambling on like a schoolgirl with a crush. “Sorry I’m babbling again.  I’m really not the babbling type, it’s something he’s done to me.”

Wendell smiled at him, one of those genuine, open smiles that made it seem like he was enthralled by John’s words. “No please, by all means, continue.”

John swallowed, “He was just so _good._  I wanted to take him from that place and put him somewhere safe.  I didn’t care what it would have cost me, I was willing to pay it to get him out of there because _no one_ deserves to be treat that way.  But most especially not him, he deserved so much better than that.  It broke my heart to think that no one had seen that goodness he carries around within him, to think that no one had told him what was happening to him wasn't acceptable.  It broke my heart to think that no one had told him his worth in a way that mattered, in a way that inspired and encouraged him." John shook his head.  "The world has wronged him in ways I will never understand and I wanted so desperately to show him that the world was wrong.  But in the long run he didn’t need me to free him, he did it all on his own and it didn’t seem to change things for us one way or the other.”

“My heavens.” Wendell said wiping what appeared to be a tear from his cheek and clearing his throat.  “I must confess when I first saw you I wasn’t entirely sure what Sherlock saw in you that had him so enraptured.  Don’t get me wrong; you seem perfectly lovely, with your dishevelled hair and cozy jumpers; very boy next door in the best possible way.  But that’s not who you are at all, is it?  You seem so very open and honest, but I’ll wager no one knows about the kind of home you grew up in and the sort of trials you’ve overcome.  You seem so kind and gentle but I imagine you wouldn’t blink an eye if you had to kill a man to protect someone you love.  You’re a doctor, a healer by trade and by nature but you were the best shot in your training unit; the best they’d seen in quite some time I’m told.  You’re a rather interesting study in contradictions, John Watson.”

John shrugged, “I don’t think anyone is quite who they appear to be.”

“No, I suppose you’re right.” Wendell turned to glance at the clock on the wall, “I’m regret it immensely, but I'm afraid your hour is just about up, John.  But before you go, might I ask you one more question.”

“You may as well.” John replied.

“Do you love my brother?”

John paused and swallowed, did he love Sherlock?  He hadn't really thought about it in those words before. “I...” John shook his head, “I’m not sure, to be honest.  But I’ve never felt like this about anyone else.”

Wendell smiled at him as though he’d passed some sort of a test by not really answering his question.  “Yes.  I think you are just the thing Sherlock needs.  Just don’t give up on him too soon, alright?”

John smiled ruefully, “I don’t think I could possibly give up on him if I tried.”

“John Watson, it has been an absolute pleasure to meet you.  Please feel free to come back and visit some time.  I would be only too happy to see you again.”

“I would like that, too.” John said with a grin, feeling as though he’d just made a new friend.

“Good.  Next time you come bring me some yarn.”

John laughed, “Yarn?”

“Yes.  I knit blankets in my spare time, which I seem to have in spades at the moment.”

“Alright.  Consider it done.”

“Goodbye John.  Good luck.”

“Thanks.” John replied with a smile.  “Bye Wendell.”  

A guard tapped him on the shoulder and told him his time was up and John stood with one more wave at Wendell.  He left feeling much more hopeful than he had when he’d come in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Ziferblat is an actual place that I stumbled upon (figuratively, on the internet, of course) in my search for a suitable coffee shop for John and Sherlock to meet in. From what I have read, it is a coffee shop that you don't pay for anything you eat or drink, you merely pay for the time you spend there. The figures used in this chapter for the amount of money one would spend there were pulled up from their website. If someone knows more about it than I do, please don't hesitate to correct me if I've gotten it wrong somewhere along the way. That's the trouble with not being able to go somewhere and experience it first hand. ;) If anyone has the chance to go, you should tell me all about it because it looks darling.  
> -Here's the link to the page I originally found it on: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/europe/united-kingdom/england/london/galleries/Londons-quirkiest-cafes/ziferblatcafe/  
> -and here's the one for the actual cafe: http://www.ziferblat.co.uk/
> 
> 2\. Gardner's Theory of Multiple Intelligences is an actual thing as well, it's something taught to education majors to help them understand how children (or people in general) learn and to validate people who are intelligent in ways outside of "conventional" intelligence. It's actually pretty interesting. Here's a link to some basics for anyone who'd like to learn more: http://www.tecweb.org/styles/gardner.html


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers, please forgive the delay. I fear work has gotten the better of me this past week. Thank you all once again for your lovely comments and encouragement <3
> 
> This is a short one so I will have a second (also short) chapter up soon.

_ Sherlock _

Sherlock tapped his fingers on his arm as he waited for everyone to get seated on the plane for his flight back to London from Miami.  He derisively slid the shade closed on the window.  It was ridiculously hot here and the sun never seemed to stop shining; Sherlock despised this place.  But the case had been well worth it, intriguing from start to finish.  Martha Hudson was a firecracker, even at her age, and there was something about her that resonated with Sherlock.

She’d been willing to stand up to some very dangerous men and, even if it was 30 years late, she was finally putting an end to her sham of a marriage.  Her husband had been awful to her and Sherlock had felt a vindictive sort of glee in putting him behind bars and ensuring he received the death penalty.  He’d taken one look at the email Mrs. Hudson had sent him and had gotten on the next flight to Miami he could find.

Mrs. Hudson had surprised him with her kindness and how easily she’d liked him.  By the time Sherlock left she’d already offered him a flat in London to live in for next to nothing and had all but adopted him as the child she never had.  She was lovely and Sherlock had become very fond of her in a short space.

But in spite of how lovely the company had been, and in spite of how excellent the case had been (Sherlock had essentially dismantled a drug cartel single handedly) he had spent much of the week feeling irritable and on edge.  Even finishing the case hadn’t felt as amazing as it should have; he felt a great sense of satisfaction but somehow the euphoria was less than what he’d imagined it should be.  

The truth of the matter was that Sherlock missed John Watson.  It was stupid and it was juvenile but he missed him.  He missed the way his eyes lit up when Sherlock said or did something clever, he missed how gentle and soft he could be, he missed the feeling of never quite knowing what John was going to do or say.  He found himself constantly fighting the battle against popping off a text to John just to ask him something, just to talk to him.  The ridiculous thing was that Sherlock didn’t even care what he said to him, he just wanted to talk to him.

It was completely absurd and Sherlock had done everything in his power to make his mind stop thinking about John but he’d seemed powerless to do so.  He could help but wonder if John was thinking about him, if somewhere half way across the world, John was wondering the same thing.  It was sentimental and Sherlock despised himself for even thinking it but he couldn’t seem to turn his mind away from it no matter how hard he tried.  His failure simply made him irritable; there was no reason he shouldn’t be able to overcome this.

On an entirely different, but no less irrational level, he felt a bit irritated that John hadn't contacted him at all in the six days that had followed their meeting in the cafe. It was completely illogical for him to feel this way as the last time they'd spoken he’d pushed John away as forcefully as he could manage. He'd picked all of the words that he knew would hurt John the most and employed them. 

Watching the way he was hurting John had been painful for him as well; his stomach had twisted uncomfortably and his chest had ached. Once he’d started he’d been worried that John was only going to feel hurt the entire time and he didn't know quite how to deal with the feeling of deep rooted guilt at the hurt he was intentionally causing. He'd wondered how long he was going to have to push John before had had enough. He'd never had to work so hard at getting someone to leave before. 

Finally he'd managed it but even then, John's response had been surprising. He hadn't said goodbye forever he'd left the door open for Sherlock to come back in anytime he wished. It had been almost as though John had known it was an act from the beginning.  And maybe he had, he was strangely perceptive and it caught Sherlock off guard at times.  But he was so tired of this circular thought process, he was so irritated with his own mind for putting everything he knew about John Watson on constant loop.

Sherlock would have liked to have blamed the fact that John never did what he expected him to for his mildly obsessive thought patterns.  But the truth of the matter was that it was just John and Sherlock missed him.  And thus Sherlock was brought back to the beginning of his cycle.

The overhead lights in the plane dimmed and the annoying recording telling everyone what to do in the event of an emergency came on.  Sherlock put his phone on airplane mode before putting headphones in and tuning out the world; attempting to tune out his own mind at the same time.  He turned on some Tschaikovsky and fell asleep for the first time in days.     

When they landed Sherlock switched his phone back on and was bombarded with texts, every time he went to try and open one another popped up.  Finally he settled in to wait, feeling faintly irritated by the sheer number of messages that had come in.  The irritation only lasted until he opened his inbox and saw that all (with the exception of one from his parents telling him they were at the airport to pick him up and give him his cat whom they had agreed to watch while he was away and one from Lestrade asking about a consult on a case) were from John.  Sherlock scrolled to the top of the new messages in the conversation feed and began to read.

7:31:  **Hi.  So, I know I said I was going to give you space and let you come around and I meant it.  But I also said you’d know where to find me when you changed your mind.  Long story short my landlords are complete wankers and I finished moving out tonight.  My stuff is in storage for now because I’m staying with my sister until I find a new flat.**

7:33:  **Damn.  That last text was meant to say I don’t know where I’m moving yet. Mostly, I just didn’t want you to come around to my flat and not be able to find me.**

7:37: **Not that you were necessarily going to come to my flat unannounced, but on the off chance you were, I would like to actually be in the place you come to.**

7:39:  **Right.  That sounded creepy.  Sorry.  I guess I was just feeling hopeful that someday we were going to talk again.**

9:34:  **I just realized how pathetic that last text sounded.**

9:35:  **I’m not pathetic, I really do have other things I do apart from pining after you all day.  For instance: tonight = pub night with the blokes from the hospital.**

10:23:  **I miss you.  Am I allowed to tell you that?**

10:25:  **It’s just I’ve never met anyone like you.**

10:26:  **Everyone else I know is so boring.**

11:01:  **Fuck, I’m drunk.  And I’m probably going to regret this in the morning, but can we talk?**

11:02:  **Or not talk.**

11:05:  **This isn’t a booty call... booty text? Is that a thing?  I just miss you.  Let’s go out for pancakes.**

11:06:  **Or drinks.**

11:11:  **Or coffee.**

12:01:  **Or not.  That’s okay, too.**

Sherlock glanced at the clock on his phone, feeling a bit giddy with the knowledge that John had missed him.  He found these texts more endearing than he probably should have.  Sherlock carried his phone in front of him on his way through the airport, rereading the messages from John over and over, unable to keep a stupid grin off his face.

He knew he should put a stop to this here and now.  He knew that it would lead to more heartache in the long run, it always did, but he couldn’t stop thinking how perfect it was that he was preparing to move into a two bedroom flat and John was looking for a flat.  Maybe they could move in together.  Maybe they could just be friends. 

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure how being friends with someone like John actually worked, but that small part of his brain that had been nagging him all week decided he could maybe give it a try.  He sent off a text:  

**_Tomorrow. 11:00am. 221B Baker Street.-SH_ **


	17. Chapter 17

_ John _

John awoke to Harry's shrill, irritated voice and her hand roughly shaking his shoulder.  She was ridiculously loud.  He started to roll over to glare at her but when he opened his eyes the light coming in through the windows sent a lancing pain through his head.  It felt like a spear had been driven through his skull, his mouth tasted like something had crawled in and died, and he had to fight down a wave of nausea.  He groaned, “Leave me to die.”

“You’re a bloody lightweight and a drama queen.” Harry said in exasperation.

John shook his head, she had no idea how much drinking he had done at the pub last night.  “So much vodka.” he groaned at her.  He’d had a terrible few days; between his landlord ending his lease early, everything with Sherlock, and one of his patients dying yesterday he was about at the end of his rope.

“Your phone’s been beeping every five minutes for God only knows how long.  You need to make it stop.”

As if on cue, his text alert went off again.  Groaning he reached toward the coffee table and patted around blindly for his phone.

“For fuck’s sake.” Harry said, picking up his phone and throwing it at him.  “Read your text and then take a shower, you smell like a bar.”

John squinted at his phone for a moment, he saw Sherlock’s name on the locked screen and felt a moment of triumphant excitement before last night came back to him.  He groaned and shook his head, holding the phone back out to Harry.  “I can’t.” he said.  “It’s from him and I've ruined everything.  I shouldn’t drink; vodka and tequila shots take away my filter.” 

She sighed, it was the sort of sigh John had heard a million times over the course of his life from an exasperated older sister.  He opened one eye to squint and see what Harry was doing, she sat down on the edge of the coffee table and said, “Alright, spill.”

Of course John had already told her all about what had happened with Sherlock up until all of the texts he’d sent last night.  She’d been the one to encourage him to go out with friends and stop “pining” after Sherlock in the first place.  “This is all your fault.” he whinged.  “If you hadn’t told me to go out with friends I never would have gotten drunk enough to send him all the texts I did.”

“John.” she growled warningly.

“I might have sent him a couple of texts last night.  Telling him I missed him.  And possibly asking him out for dinner or drinks.”

“Bloody hell.”

“I know.  I'm pathetic.” John moaned piteously, covering his face with his hands and feeling completely hopeless.  “He’s never going to want to talk to me again.”

“Right.  You're being ridiculous.  I’m reading this bloody text message to you.” she said and John heard her typing in his passcode then the swish as his phone unlocked.  “It says, ‘Tomorrow.  11:00am.  221B Baker St. SH’” 

“What?” John sat up and it felt like his brain had tried to stay on the sofa when his head moved.  Maybe his brain was sloshing around in alcohol.  He groaned but snatched the phone out of Harry’s hand and reread the text.  His stomach fluttered in a way that was entirely unrelated to the hangover.  “What time is it?” 

“10:15.”

“Shit.  Where the hell is Baker Street?” he asked as he stood up and started moving on wobbly legs toward the bathroom.  

“About 20 minutes away by cab.” Harry said.

“Great.” John muttered sarcastically

“You can thank me later.” Harry called after him as he started to close the bathroom door. 

He poked his head back around the door to look at her, “Maybe he’s just telling me in person to piss off.”

She laughed and shook her head, “I doubt it, but if he does the first round's on me.”

By the time John got dressed and found his sunglasses it was 10:45 and by the time he’d found a cab it was 10:50.  “221B Baker Street.  As quickly as you can manage it.” he told the driver as he pulled out his phone.

**I’m running a tad late but I'll be there.**

He sent off the text and waited for a response, when there was none he felt his stomach drop slightly.  This was a terrible morning, he thought as he sagged back against the seat and closed his eyes against the sun once more, even with his sunglasses on it was too bright out.  Of all the days for it to be sunny in London, why today?  

He tried to prepare an apology for all of the texts he’d sent last night, he cringed at his own stupidity, he just wasn’t sure where to begin.  Sorry you’re the person I drunk text?  Sorry I texted you like a crazed stalker?  Sorry I missed you so much I couldn’t hold it in when my brain was inhibited by alcohol?  He was such an idiot.

The cab pulled up in front of a building and John paid the cabbie before climbing out and glancing around for Sherlock.  A moment later, the door to what appeared to be 221B Baker Street opened and Sherlock emerged.  He was wearing a simple pair of denims and a black t shirt, John couldn't help but think he looked attractive even in clothes that weren't meant to be attractive.  

He smirked a bit at John.  “Vodka get the better of you?”

“I don’t even want to know how you knew it was the vodka.”

Sherlock chuckled and John thought he’d never get tired of that sound, he must still be a bit drunk.  “Why don’t you come inside and we can talk a bit?”

John felt his heart lift at the words; talking was good, talking was what they needed more than anything at the moment.  He just wished he wasn’t quite so hung over for it.

He followed Sherlock up a set of stairs and into a living room that had boxes of books, and chemistry equipment, and all sorts of rubbish spilling everywhere.  

“Sorry for the mess.” Sherlock said, glancing at John and looking a bit self conscious.  “I’ve only just moved in and I’m not naturally a tidy person.  But I could clean up a bit.”

John shook his head, “It’s fine. Really.” John reassured him.  “Everyone makes a mess when they move in.”

“And when will you be doing that?”

“Pardon?” John asked, not quite sure he was following.

“When will you be moving in?  I see you haven’t brought anything with you this morning, did you want to see the room first?”

“I’m sorry.  I thought you said you just moved in.” John said, sitting down in the old armchair whose back was facing the kitchen.  He squirmed a bit to get comfortable as Sherlock sat down in the chair across from him with a sigh.

“I did just move in.” Sherlock said.  “I got back from Miami at half two this morning and have spent the past-” he glanced down at his mobile, “Mmmm eight-ish hours moving into this flat.  I’m afraid my parents weren’t thrilled with the timing but after they saw the flat I was living in, they were happy to indulge me.” he waved a hand as though none of that was important.  “So.  The question remains, when are you moving in?”

John gaped at him for a moment before spluttering, “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked, as though he hadn’t heard a word John had said.

“I’m sorry, what?” John asked, feeling completely off kilter; maybe it was just his hungover mind but Sherlock seemed to be making less sense than usual.

“The violin.” Sherlock prompted once more, as though it should be completely clear what he meant.  “I play the violin when I’m thinking.” he added.  “Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, would that bother you?  Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“Who said anything about flatmates?” John asked in exasperation.

“Well you did.” Sherlock said.  “You sent me a message last night saying that you were in need of a new flat, I happen to be moving into a two bedroom flat at a rate that I dare say will compete with the one you had.”

John shook his head, “I doubt that.  This is a prime location.”

“That’s true, but the landlady owes me a favor of sorts.  Mrs. Hudson was the business I was taking care of in Florida over the past week.  Her husband got sentenced to death and I was able to help her out.”

John felt his eyebrows raise in astonishment, he’d known Sherlock was brilliant but this was something else entirely, “You stopped her husband from being executed?”

“Oh no.  I ensured it.” Sherlock grinned at him.  “So, what do you say?  The second room is yours if you want it.”

“Wait, slow down.”  John leaned forward and rubbed his forehead, Sherlock huffed out a sigh.  “Let me get this straight.  A week ago you told me I was nothing more than a mediocre fuck but today you’re telling me you want me to move in with you?”

Sherlock sighed, “Yes.” he said, sounding a bit exasperated.

“So, you want me to be your...” John let his voice trail off, hoping Sherlock would fill in the blank because he certainly didn’t feel able to do it on his own.

“Flatmate.” Sherlock supplied, “There are two bedrooms here and I would hate for Mrs. Hudson to not have the second bit of income from another tenant because no one can live with me.”

“Oh.  So you weren’t asking me out of any sort of... I don’t know... sentimental reason?” John asked, still feeling hopeful that perhaps Sherlock had come around since their last conversation.

“I don’t do relationships, John.  I don’t have time for them.  I need to be using my mind or else I feel like I am rotting.  Flatmates don’t need to be in relationships to be compatible; there are plenty of platonic flatmates that are perfectly content to be that way.”

“Okay.” John said, feeling his heart sink a bit at what felt like a rejection, but he supposed this was a step in the right direction.  “So we’re going to be friends, then?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I’ve never been very good at friends.  But I think I could give flatmates a go.”

John sighed, it wasn’t ideal but it was a start.  “Alright, then.  Flatmates.  When will I be meeting with Mrs. Hudson?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Really?  She’s just going to let a complete stranger move into her house without even meeting him first?” John said skeptically.

“If you want to meet her first, you’re going to have wait a two weeks.  She’s still in Florida.  She told me if I thought you would be a good tenant she trusted you.” Sherlock shrugged, “I thought this would be preferable to sleeping on the sofa at your sister’s flat.  This was a positive outcome for everyone involved.”

“Right.” John blew out a breath.  He wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected to happen when he met Sherlock today, but he had hoped it would further their relationship, be it a friendship or something more, rather than bring it to a grinding halt.  He certainly hadn't been expecting to become Sherlock's  _'platonic flatmate.'_

“I’m not entirely sure why you’re hesitating?” Sherlock asked, his nose scrunching up in a way John couldn’t help but find adorable.  A moment later his face smoothed out and he said in that detached, unaffected way that made John absolutely crazy, “Unless your texts were merely drunken ramblings and you were just lonely-”

“No!” John interrupted, he wasn’t sure how he could go from thinking Sherlock was adorable to wanting to shake him in less than three seconds but somehow Sherlock had managed it.  “For fuck’s sake, Sherlock.  It’s just...” John paused, trying to put all of his turbulent emotions into a sentence.  He wasn’t sure how living with someone you were hopelessly attracted to worked exactly; especially when the other person knew you were attracted to them and was arguably attracted to you as well.  But John was nothing if not perseverant, he could do this.  “Nevermind.” John said with a shake of his head, “It’s nothing and it’s stupid.  I’m in.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock said with a quick grin that made John’s heart flip.  “I’ll show you the second room and you can start getting your things moved in.”


	18. Chapter 18

_ Sherlock _

The first week of living with John Watson had been surprisingly successful as far as Sherlock was concerned in terms of quantifiable data.  He had successfully adhered to the rules he’d set for himself when John moved in.  He'd managed to keep his hands to himself, to only smile the ridiculous smile he knew John loved when John wasn't looking, and he hadn't said anything to reveal how challenging both of those things had been. 

For the most part John seemed happy as well, largely due to his laid back attitude in regard to some of the more challenging parts of Sherlock’s personality.  John hardly batted an eye when Sherlock used his mind palace and was rather more understanding than Sherlock had ever experienced when he came out and hours had passed without his notice.  He took Sherlock’s sulks and irritability in his stride, seemingly knowing when to leave Sherlock to work it out himself or provide a suitable distraction.  He hadn't even tried to dissuade Sherlock from keeping a ziplock of amputated fingers in the crisper drawer. He'd merely opened the door and said, "Are those human fingers?" Before inspecting them more closely, ascertaining that they were indeed human appendages, and closing the drawer. "Let's label body parts, yes?" he'd requested before putting on the kettle and making them both a cup of tea. 

Yes, in quantifiable terms, Sherlock couldn't have asked for a better flatmate. And yet, he found himself lying on the couch and pondering just why he was feeling so miserable. This flatmate arrangement was everything he could have hoped for and after what Sherlock was privately referring to as the drunk texting incident, John had said nothing more on the subject of his  _ feelings _ . In fact, John seemed more than content with the flatmate arrangement and this frustrated Sherlock to no end. 

Had John changed his mind? Had he realized dating Sherlock held no appeal?  Rationally, Sherlock knew he shouldn’t care even if John had changed his mind but that didn't seem to be the case, regardless. He seemed willing to spend time with Sherlock whenever Sherlock wanted him to.  He was content to sit in the same room and read a paper or watch telly; even though Sherlock always felt like his very skin was itching to move closer to John when they were doing those types of things.  John was always willing to go out and have dinner with Sherlock; even though John then spent the better portion of the evening telling people he was not, in fact, Sherlock’s date.  And he’d even come along on a case which had proven helpful because John seemed to open up different neural pathways in his brain and he’d solved the crime in a way he hadn’t expected. 

The challenge which had been hardest to overcome had followed the case.  Sherlock could handle how adorable John looked in his sleep rumpled pajamas making (burning) breakfast for the two of them.  He could fight through the wave of gratitude for the fact that John brought him perfectly made tea multiple times a day whenever he was home.  He could get over the way his stomach swooped when he made John smile or laugh just by being himself.  He could push past the warm feeling in the pit of his belly when John complimented his mind or his looks off-handedly as though it were simply second nature to him, as though he were merely stating a fact.  He’d even overcome the desire to snuggle up on the sofa with John when he came home to find him asleep with Boo curled up in his lap.  But after the case, when they were both buzzing with adrenaline, when John was smiling and his eyes were bright, when he was praising Sherlock’s brilliance and he looked at Sherlock as though he was the solution to every problem he had ever had, when he looked at Sherlock like he never wanted to be anywhere but by his side; those were the moments Sherlock found him most difficult to resist.  

And the feeling seemed mutual if the way John kept subconsciously licking his own lips and staring at Sherlock’s in correspondence with his slightly elevated pulse and dilated pupils was anything to go by.  Based on the evidence before him, it seemed John was just as interested as he’d been a week ago and was merely being respectful of Sherlock's boundaries and wishes as he always was. How tedious.  

There was nothing for it. Sherlock had no doubt he would have felt irritated if John had continued to pursue him and he felt equally irritated that he hadn't. He folded his hands under his chin.  What a terrible conundrum that no matter the outcome, Sherlock would feel dissatisfied.  If nothing else John had served as a motivator to get his school work and his experiments done. The less time he spent thinking about John the better. 

There was movement upstairs and Sherlock adjusted how he was laid out across the sofa. He knew it shouldn't matter, he wasn't supposed to be trying to make himself more appealing to John but he couldn't seem to help himself.  A few minutes later he heard the stairs creaking under John’s feet as he descended, “Morning.” John called as he headed into the kitchen.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally at him, trying to stay detached and aloof even though he knew it drove John round the twist, perhaps it was in light of that fact.  

“Have you eaten?” John asked.

“Not hungry.”

“Did you sleep?”

Sherlock huffed, “I’m sorry,” he began sarcastically, “I wasn’t aware I was living with my mother again.”

“That’ll be a no, then.” John commented.  

Sherlock could hear him moving around in the kitchen; he was going into work today, he’d be making coffee and toast with jam.  Sherlock’s stomach growled and he heard John let out a soft chuckle from the kitchen.  “You can lie to yourself all you want.” John said, “But you can’t lie to me.  I’ll make you a bit of toast and a cup of coffee, yeah?”  When Sherlock didn’t respond John continued, “I bought that local honey I know you’re fond of.” 

He wasn’t wrong, Sherlock did love that honey; the last time he’d picked it up from the market Sherlock had eaten most of the jar by the end of the day.  Sherlock huffed, “Will you stop harassing me if I eat it?” he asked trying to sound irritable about the whole affair.

Either John didn’t care or he wasn’t fooled, “Cross my heart.” he said with a hint of amusement in his tone.  

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head to look into the kitchen, “What are you so obnoxiously cheerful about this morning?”

John leaned back from the table where he was preparing the coffee so he could see around the doorway into the livingroom to look at Sherlock.  “Nothing.” he said with a shrug before going back to preparing the coffee.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.  While he’d known John was a morning person, he seemed more cheerful this morning than usual.  “What time is it?”

“Mmmh.” John hummed, “Little after half eight.  Why?”

He was a bit later this morning than he was most mornings when he had to work, he was more cheerful, and his complexion was a bit ruddier than usual.  “You had a wank before you came downstairs this morning, didn’t you?”

John let out a surprised laugh, “Yep.” he replied without a trace of self-consciousness.  “Why?  Did you want to help?” Sherlock felt his own cheeks heat up at the thought and heat pooled in the pit of his stomach.  He cleared his throat.

“Just teasing.” John said as he appeared in the living room a moment later balancing the plates of toast a top the mugs of coffee.  “Sit up.” he told Sherlock.  Sherlock obeyed before he’d even thought twice about it and took his plate and cup from John’s hands.

“Thank you.” he said.

John grinned at him and sat down on the sofa beside him, setting his mug down on the coffee table as well before biting into his toast.

Sherlock picked up a slice of the toast John had slathered in honey for him, putting almost as much on it as Sherlock himself would have.  Sherlock hummed in approval and took a bite.  They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes and Sherlock had to fight the urge to scooch over a bit so the side of his body could press against John’s.  Maybe he could do it without John noticing?

His thoughts were interrupted by John asking, “So what are your plans for the day?” around a mouthful of toast.

Sherlock swallowed the bite he was chewing on.  “I’m not sure yet.” he replied, “I’m thinking about doing a comprehensive study on different varieties of ash.”

“A study of ash?” John asked incredulously.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, “Surely the reasons such a study might be useful don’t elude you.”

John laughed, “I’m afraid they do.”  He stuffed the last bit of toast in his mouth, he brushed his hands off and swallowed. “But you are far more clever than I am.” he said with what Sherlock fancied was a fond grin.  John stood and brushed the crumbs from his shirt and trousers before leaning in close to Sherlock. Sherlock felt his breath catch in his chest as John reached out and swiped his thumb along the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Honey.” John elucidated before bringing his thumb to his lips and sucking it off with a playful wink.

He sauntered to the kitchen and put his plate in the sink before heading into the bathroom to shower.

Sherlock let out a shaky sigh, this was intolerable.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dearest readers!
> 
> I am so terribly sorry for the delay in posting these chapters; my personal life has been a mess this past week and a half. I have been working on this work but am just now getting around to doing the editing. My most sincere apologies. <3
> 
> Thank you all for your kind words of encouragement. I hope this work continues to be something you enjoy reading. 
> 
> As ever, comments and concrit are always welcome and encouraged.

_ John _

John Watson was in hell.  Not the proverbial sort of hell one envisioned as a child with fire and a man with horns but one which punished him far more effectively.  He wasn’t entirely sure what he had done to merit such a punishment, but he was certainly suffering.  

When Sherlock had first brought up the prospect of being flatmates he’d sited his violin playing and his not talking for days on end as the worst things about having him as a flatmate.  Those were definitely not the worst things about having Sherlock as a flatmate.  Thus far, the violin had only been mildly irritating (and that was only when Mycroft had stopped by the flat unannounced to offer his congratulations, otherwise his playing was actually rather good.) and John had yet to see Sherlock stop speaking to him for any real length of time.  The longest they’d not spoken when John was in the flat was a span of about 2 hours when Sherlock had seemingly gotten lost wandering around in his own mind.  

But more often than not, the opposite seemed to be true; Sherlock was constantly talking to him about one thing or another.  He’d walked into the room Sherlock was in countless times in the past week to have Sherlock say something to the effect of, ‘I asked you for a pen.’ or ask for John’s opinion as he’d apparently been trying to talk to John about something without John even present.  The first time it had happened John had felt guilty, he’d gone to use the loo and had been as quiet as he could so he didn’t disturb Sherlock’s thinking when he left the room.  He soon came to realize that it didn’t particularly matter how noisy he was or if he announced when he was leaving or not; when Sherlock was in his head there was no getting him out of it and he seemed to assume John was just always around him.

No, the worst things about living with Sherlock were not his violin playing or his propensity toward quiet thinking time.  The worst thing about living with Sherlock was the way he only smiled his real smile when he thought John couldn’t see him, as though he didn’t want to give John the satisfaction of seeing him happy.  The worst thing about living with Sherlock was the way he tried to close himself off emotionally from John as much as he could manage.  The worst thing about living with Sherlock was that he had no construct of what personal space was, Sherlock was perpetually sitting or standing a bit near him and yet he never quite managed to touch John.

The worst thing about Sherlock was how ridiculously attractive he was when John wasn’t allowed to touch him or say so.  And it wasn’t just when Sherlock had artfully draped himself across the sofa or the way he worked so hard to ensure that not a curl fell out of place; of course he looked stunning in those moments and John struggled not to tell him so.  But even more so than when he was trying to be attractive were the moments when being attractive was the furthest thing from his mind.  John couldn’t help but find him beautiful when he was pacing around the flat muttering things under his breath, his curls positively riotous from him running his fingers through them.  He couldn’t help but find him adorable in the way he looked up at John under his eyelashes when John did something kind and unexpected, even something as simple as bringing tea.  He couldn’t help but find him impossibly sexy when he was being clever and excitedly rattling off a deduction at lightning speed.  It was completely and totally unfair how attractive Sherlock was to John in every way imaginable.

As a means of maintaining his sanity, John had begun to retaliate by subtly seducing Sherlock at every turn and flirting with him mercilessly in the least obvious ways he could manage.  He never crossed the line into a come on, never pressured Sherlock in any way, but he was fairly certain his attraction and affection were apparent.  Furthermore, his attraction to Sherlock wasn’t a one dimensional affair; he didn’t simply want to sleep with him and be done with it; he wanted much more than that, so he’d begun a full assault on his genius flatmate’s heart and mind.  He found he liked nothing better than the small pleased smile on Sherlock’s face when a compliment had found a home in his incredible mind.  He adored the way Sherlock seemed to stutter a flustered reply as though he had no idea what he should be saying or doing in response.    

Unfortunately, this too only served to ratchet up John’s own desire for their relationship to be something more.  It was a frustrating and exhilarating cycle that wouldn’t give John a moment’s peace.  

It seemed his strategy had been working, he couldn’t get the picture of Sherlock’s surprised face when he’d reached over to wipe the honey off his mouth from his mind.  He’d replayed the way Sherlock’s fingers had come up to brush across the same spot unconsciously a moment after John’s had a dozen times.  The vision of Sherlock’s cheeks flushed pink, his curls sticking up in every direction, and his tongue poking out to wet his lips after John had winked at him had buoyed his thoughts all morning.  John sighed, he was hopeless.

“John!” an irritated voice called.

He turned to find Sarah standing behind him with her hands on her hips, looking a bit peeved.  “Yes?” John asked, wondering what he’d done to make her so irked.  He mentally ran through his to-do list with his patients, he was fairly certain he had everything done he needed to.

“I called your name about five times before you responded.” she huffed before walking over to him.

“Sorry.”  John replied, “I was thinking.”

“Anthony called in sick, I need you to take care of Mrs. Walker in room 351; she needs to have her incision site checked on, Mr. Burns in 365 needs to be discharged, Miss Taylor in 336 needs a consult on a suspected broken arm, and Mr. Smith in room 348 needs a catheter put in.” 

John sighed and glanced down at his watch, he’d just been finishing up his charts for the day.  He was ready to go home and it was already 20 minutes after his shift was supposed to have ended.

“Do you have somewhere else you need to be?” Sarah asked impatiently, holding out the charts for the rooms she just listed off to John.

“No.” John replied, taking the charts from her.

“I don’t know what’s been with you the past few weeks.” Sarah complained.  “You used to always be so reliable when it came to picking up other people’s shifts.  I hate it when my doctors get into relationships.”

“I’m not in a relationship.” John replied, affronted.

Sarah raised an eyebrow at him skeptically.

“I’m not.” he said firmly.  When she said nothing but continued to wait John sighed.  “It’s complicated.” he mumbled.

“Even worse.” Sarah said.  “It’s better once you get your ducks in a row and get out of the honeymoon phase.  So the sooner you can do that, the better for us.” she said with a nod.

John internally rolled his eyes, externally he put a smile on his face, “I’ll just take care of these patients, then.” 

He went about his job, being pleasant to the patients and kind and friendly with the nurses, but inwardly he was quite frustrated.  He did his job, he worked hard, he gave excellent patient care and had excellent working relationships with his co workers; what more could possibly be expected of him?  

He knew his frustration wasn’t at Sarah, not really.  She was just the latest in a long list of people who had spent his entire life expecting more from him than they had from anyone else.  They saw his strengths and expected him to take on the world.  His teachers had seen him as a bright, hardworking students and had expected nothing less than above average work.  His friends had seen him as the person who was always meant to have their back, and had expected him to give everything of himself without giving very much in return.  The military had seen an excellent marksman and someone who was good at following orders; he’d been ready to sign twenty years of his life away to them before his mum had gotten sick.  And his family, well his family had all seen him as something they needed him to be for them.  His father had seen him as a rugby star who got all of the things his father had dreamed of when he was in school, his mother had seen him as the child to make all of the responsible choices, and his sister hand seen him as the brother who was meant to stand up and protect her.  

The trouble with everyone having unrealistically high expectations of you was that you were bound to fail them, simply by nature of being human and by nature of having to meet your own needs every so often.  Perhaps, John reflected, that was one of the things he liked so well about Sherlock.  Sherlock never expected anything of him, he knew his strengths and he must have known by extension what John could do for him.  Sherlock asked for ridiculous things from him, like pens, or his mobile, and often he asked medical questions.  And sometimes he asked John for things to help stop murderers and burglars; sometimes he asked for things that made John feel completely alive and as though he somehow hadn’t missed all chances for excitement by not joining the military.  But he never asked for anything that was difficult for John to give; he never used John’s nature against him.

John was still pondering this when he finished up with his last patients, as he headed back to finish up the last of his charts he heard his mobile go off.  He cursed as he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his scrubs, sure it was Sarah asking him to do something else before he left.  

He was pleasantly surprised to find a text from Sherlock instead:

**Lestrade just stopped by, we have a case if you’re interested.  There have been five incidents that appeared to be break-ins but were in fact murders, I’ll fill you in on the details later.  The press just caught wind of it and the police are scrambling. It’s Christmas!  I’ll forward you the address, if you’d like to join me.  Although, based on the fact that you still haven’t left the hospital I’m guessing you’ve had quite a long day.  And someone probably called in sick judging by the fact that there haven’t been any major accidents or emergencies near you, nor has there been an outbreak of anything flu like in nature. -SH**

John grinned, he had to reread the text five times before he could get past the first sentence, ‘Lestrade stopped by,  _ we  _ have a case if you’re interested.’  It was a ridiculous thing to feel excited about (like so many things were when it came to Sherlock), such a small word but it made John feel ten feet tall.  His phone vibrated and the address came through.

**_I’ll be there.  Just one thing, though, how do you know I haven’t left the hospital yet?_ **

The response was instantaneous:  **You’re considerate, you always text when you’re leaving to see if I want you to pick anything up on the way home. As I haven’t received a text, I assumed you hadn’t left the hospital.  Was I wrong?-SH**

**_No.  You were correct.  As usual._** __With a grin, John left the hospital and set off to find Sherlock and solve a crime.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally part of the one I posted before this but it just ended up being way too long, it will still be John's perspective. This chapter has the sort of canon-typical violence one comes to associate with crime scenes, I hope it isn't too jarring for anyone.
> 
> Lastly, the next two chapters will be case-related. I think, for me at least, writing cases for Sherlock to deduce and solve is the most challenging part of writing Sherlock fanfics; if anyone has any concrit I would be most delighted to hear it. :)
> 
> Sorry to anyone who received two emails that this chapter was done; I had a few lovely readers give me some very thoughtful feedback to help make this chapter run more smoothly. For the most part (I think) everything gets explained in the next chapter but feel free to read this one again for clarity's sake should you so desire. <3

_John_

John took a cab to the crime scene and was climbing out just as a second cab pulled up.  Sherlock threw open the door and stepped out, all but vibrating with excitement and John couldn’t help but give him a quick grin.

“Glad you could join me, Doctor.” Sherlock said with a quick nod, drawing his coat closed against the chill of the early November air.

John grinned and followed Sherlock to the line of police tape, they were met immediately by an irritated looking woman who barked, “What are you doing here, freak?”

John gritted his teeth against her demeanor and blatant rudeness but Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice.

“I’m here to see Detective Lestrade.” Sherlock replied.

“Why?”

“I think he wants me to take a look.” Sherlock said with feigned innocence, as though it were just a hunch that he was trying out.

She rolled her eyes and glared at Sherlock, “Who’s this, then?” she asked nodding at John.

“Colleague of mine.” Sherlock said easily, “Dr. Watson.” he turned and looked at John, “Doctor Watson, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan.  An old friend.” he said his voice dripping with sarcasm.

John ignored the sting of being referred to as a colleague and turned to offer a hand to Sergeant Donovan in spite of his serious misgivings about her.

But she wasn’t through with Sherlock yet, it seemed, “A _colleague?”_ she asked incredulously.  “How do you have a colleague?” she turned and looked John up and down, “What, did he follow you home?”

John gritted his teeth and turned away from Sergeant Donovan to look at Sherlock.  He wanted to be here, he really did, but not if it made it harder for Sherlock, not if he was a source of greater ridicule, “Would it be better if I just waited here or-”

“No.” Sherlock said and lifted the police tape to usher John through.

Donovan lifted the radio to her mouth, “Freak’s here, I’m bringing him in.”

John’s hands curled into fists at his sides and he bit his tongue, fighting against his need to stand up for Sherlock; he had no delusions that Sherlock needed him to.

“Stop grinding your teeth.” Sherlock said to him with a bit of a smirk as they headed toward the building.  “It’s bad for your enamel.”

John let out a bark of laughter, he couldn’t help himself.  Donovan turned to glare at him and he cleared his throat but couldn’t quite push the grin off his face.

They were almost to the door when they were stopped yet again, it seemed Sherlock had no shortage of people who disliked him here.  “Now,” said the man with greasy hair and hooked nose, he rather reminded John of what he’d always imagined Professor Snape would have looked like in real life, “This is a crime scene.  And I don’t want it contaminated.  Are we clear on that?”

“Quite clear.” Sherlock replied; John couldn’t help but be impressed by how calm Sherlock remained.  When the man still didn’t move out of the way, Sherlock said, “How long is Mrs. Anderson away?”

John looked over at Sherlock, his eyebrows raised, this was probably the most congenial he’d ever seen Sherlock.  It irritated John that it seemed Sherlock felt he had to work so hard to fit in with these people who obviously didn’t give a rat’s arse about him.

“Oh. Don’t pretend you worked that out on your own.” the man sneered.  “Someone told you that.”

“Yes, you’re right.” Sherlock said amicably, “You did.”

“No I didn’t!”

Sherlock shrugged, “Your deodorant did.”

“My deodorant?  What are you on about?”

“Well, it’s for men.” Sherlock said.  John looked over at Sherlock, what in the world was he saying?

“Of course it’s for men!  I’m wearing it.” Anderson said, affronted.

“Ah, yes.  So is Sergeant Donovan.”

John watched as Donovan and Anderson exchanged shocked looks, both preparing to say something when Sherlock said politely, “May I go in now?”

“Now, whatever you’re trying to imply-” Andersen began, taking a step menacingly toward Sherlock that had John’s hackles rising.

“I’m not implying anything.”  Sherlock said coolly, stepping around Anderson and through the door.  “I’m sure Sally just came round for a nice chat, perhaps she wanted to teach you a thing or two about forensics; she had rather high marks in the academy I’ve no doubt.  She probably just ended up staying over.” he said pleasantly.  “It looks as though she was thoughtful enough to scrub your floors as well, going by the state of her knees.”

Sherlock ignored their looks of horror as he stepped past them and into the house, John couldn’t help but feel rather smug as he followed suit, pointedly looking at Sally’s knees as well.  

“You’re brilliant.” John murmured softly so no one else could hear.

Sherlock turned to look at John over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised as though he wasn’t quite sure whether John was being sarcastic or not.  John just gave him a quick grin before Lestrade came out.

“Really?” Lestrade asked.  “Sherlock I shouldn’t even have you here, why did you bring John along?” Lestrade looked at John, “No offense, mate.  It’s just that it’s one thing when Sherlock inserts himself and by extension you, but something else entirely when I ask for his help.”

John shrugged, but felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  But before John could say anything, Sherlock spoke up, “John is a doctor, he is here to provide a medical opinion.”

“We have someone for that.” Lestrade said with a heavy sigh.

“Yes well, Anderson won’t work with me.”

“He won’t be your assistant, you mean.”

“I need an assistant.” Sherlock said blandly.

Lestrade sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair, “And I need you.  Welcome aboard Dr. Watson.” He gestured behind him, “Up the stairs we go.”

John followed Sherlock up the stairs and pointedly did _not_ stare at his arse even though it looked fantastic in his trousers.  Instead, he looked around the house, from the outside it had looked nice enough, but it looked even more lavish from the inside.  It was tastefully decorated and the staircase they climbed was stunning.  “So was it a robbery?” John asked.

He heard Lestrade sigh a few steps above him, “That was our initial guess as well, the other four victims were also wealthy but nothing seems to be missing when an inventory is done.  We’re not sure how to prevent a crime when there’s no motive.”

“There’s always a motive, Lestrade.” Sherlock said impatiently as they entered a bedroom swathed in pink; the carpets were pink, the bedding was pink, the curtains were pink, even the walls were a pale pink.  How old was this girl who’d been murdered?

“Lisa Martin.” Lestrade said as though he were introducing the blonde girl lying dead on the floor. “She was twenty two.  Our preliminary research shows she just graduated from Uni last year and was living with her parents until she could find a job.  We’d thought the first couple were suicides but the way the cuts run diagonally across the wrist was too uniform from one girl to the next.  Not to mention none of them were depressed or suicidal to any of their friends’ and families’ knowledge.”

"It couldn't have been a suicide." Sherlock said as he circled the girl lying on the floor in nothing but a slip; the dress and jumper she had presumably been wearing were crumpled on the floor in her otherwise tidy room.  He knelt down by her left arm and put a pair of gloves on before lifting the girl’s wrist and inspecting the lines that had been cut into her skin.  "Look at the angle of these lines, it would have been incredibly awkward for her to do them herself.  And look how clean the lines are." he added.  "When a person slits their own wrists the lines are at least a bit shaky.  And even if she had managed to cut her own wrists like this, where is the instrument she used?" Sherlock asked.  "Did she throw it out the window when she was done?  Think it through, Lestrade."  Sherlock went back to examining the body mumbling under his breath.

John turned to Lestrade, who was looking rather exhausted, and asked, “Have they all been young?” 

Lestrade shrugged, “Not quite as young as her, but all between the ages of twenty and forty five.”

“All women?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock said, standing up, “And it doesn’t prove anything apart from the fact that the killer has a type.  Let me see the note.”

Lestrade looked uncomfortable for a moment, “No one said anything about a note.”

Sherlock all but growled at him, “No one had to.  Look at the girl’s finger,” he said, pointing at the girl on the floor.  “The very tip of her right index finger is covered in blood but the rest of her hand isn’t.  Based on the calluses on her right hand, that is her dominant hand.  What else would she be doing with her index finger besides writing a note?  Playing in her own blood as delicately as possibly?  Besides, I have it on good authority that the other victims’ hands were in a similar state when they were found.  The medical examiner couldn’t make hide nor hair of it, but it’s obvious, isn’t it?  She must have written a note.”

“Bloody hell.” Lestrade grumbled.  “We’re trying to keep this bit out of the media, we don’t want to blow this up and have the media do something ridiculous like naming the killer and inflating their ego.”

“I’m not the common wealth.” Sherlock said.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, “They all say the same thing.  Every one of them has said ‘The Lady.’”

“The Lady?” Sherlock asked, wrinkling his nose. “That makes no sense.  Why would someone waste their last moments writing the words, ‘The Lady?’  Bring it to me.”

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his hand over his forehead, “I’ll have someone fetch it.”  He turned and made his way from the room, presumably to find the note.

“Right.” Sherlock said, turning back to the corpse, “Please have a look and tell me what you see.”  

With a quick look at Sherlock’s face he moved over toward the body and knelt beside the woman.  He was doing a preliminary examination when Lestrade returned with the note in hand, “Oh for fuck’s sake.” Lestrade said and he and Sherlock started bickering over whether John should be allowed to touch the body or not.  

John continued examining the body, determined to do his best to help Sherlock.  The four meticulous knife wounds cut diagonally into her flesh were surprisingly shallow from what John could tell and the way they’d been cut into her wrists shouldn’t have caused her to bleed out this quickly.  John sniffed, and caught a faint wiff of vomit, but there was no trace of vomit that John could see.  “Sherlock?” he interrupted.  “What’s the time table here?”

Lestrade looked down at his watch, “The neighbors heard screaming about 15 minutes ago, we’ve been on scene for 10 minutes.”

John shook his head, “I’m not a medical examiner, but I don’t think the knife wounds would have killed Lisa that fast; they’re less than a quarter of an inch deep, it’s too shallow for her to have lost enough blood to kill her.  And the way the lines were cut probably wouldn't have caused her to bleed out fast enough; vertical cuts from elbow to wrist would be the most effective.  I think she vomited while she was laying on her back and asphyxiated.  I’m just not sure why she wouldn’t have rolled over, it’s not as though the wounds would have been incapacitating.  And I don’t know what would have made her vomit in the first place.”

Sherlock beamed at him, “Very good, John.  Just like all of the other victims, if I’m not mistaken.”  He turned to Lestrade, “They’re being poisoned.”

“Poisoned?!” Lestrade exclaimed.  “Are you off your knocker?  There is no proof of that anywhere, Sherlock.  If you’ve talked to the ME, you must know the toxicology report came back clean.”

“It’s metabolized out of their system by the time they get there.”

Lestrade was about to say something more and John was about to ask what the point of him examining the body was if Sherlock had already known what he was going to say when they heard a gurgling sort of cry from somewhere outside their room.

The three of them looked at one another before dashing into the next room, they found a blonde girl who looked very much like Lisa, laying on the floor, gasping for breath and shuddering; a piece of paper clenched tightly in her fist.  She fell from her contorted position to flat on her back and was still.  John went to her side immediately and reached for her pulse on her uninjured wrist.  It was weak, but it was present.  

"Didn't you clear the bloody house before you let people in?" Sherlock was asking as John check for respiration and heart rate.

"Of course we did, the house was empty aside from Lisa's body." Lestrade replied indignantly.

"Clearly it wasn't." Sherlock replied, gesturing at the body laying on the floor. 

"Enough." John bellowed as Donovan jumped in and began bickering with the two of them as well.  "We haven't got time to argue.  Donovan, call an ambulance, tell them to bring O negative blood for a transfusion and be prepared to pump her stomach.  Greg go mix two teaspoons of salt into a glass of water and bring it to me.  Sherlock bring me your scarf now.”

They all hastened to do what John had ordered, he pulled off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his jumper.  When Sherlock got over next to him he pulled the scarf off and John took it and wrapped it securely around the girl’s wrist, “You’re sure they’re being poisoned.”  Although he could hardly imagine what else would have caused her convulsions and loss of consciousness.  She only had two lines cut into her wrist and while they were rather deeper and more shakily executed than Lisa’s had been, John still didn’t think she would have had enough time to bleed out.  The cuts had been less than a half inch deep.

“Completely sure.” Sherlock said blinking.  

“Right, because it could do more harm than good if I induce vomiting and she hasn’t been poisoned.”

“As long as he followed the pattern, she’s been poisoned.” Sherlock assured him, he pulled the page out of the girl's hand and John slapped his hand away from her; there were more important things right now than reading some bloody note that probably said the same thing all the others did.  

Lestrade came back and handed the glass to John.

“Oh.” Sherlock breathed as he vaulted up from the floor and to the window before racing from the room.  John looked up in time to see the tails of Sherlock’s coat disappear around the corner but he didn’t have time to worry about where Sherlock was going and what he was doing right now.  

“What are you doing!?” Donovan asked as John supported the girl’s head and started to pour the mixture Greg had brought down her throat.

“Making her vomit.” John replied as he tipped her forward and opened her mouth, inserting his fingers to try to produce a gag reflex.

Donovan moved to stop him but Lestrade held her back.  “He’s a doctor, let him be.”

“Did the freak tell you that?” Donovan asked.

“I’ll be happy to show you my medical license once I’ve saved this girl’s life.” John snapped, as she vomited on the carpet.  The girl regained consciousness and looked up at him.  “You’re going to be just fine.” John told her firmly with a smile.

The girl murmured something to him but he couldn’t quite make out the words, “What was that?” he asked, leaning his head down to her mouth to hear.

“Rachel.” she murmured weakly.

“Rachel?” he asked.  She nodded.  He turned to look at Lestrade, “Who is Rachel?”

“Damned if I know.” he said but started shouting for one of the other people working with him to find out.  

John grimaced and turned back to her.  She was so pale and there was a sheen of sweat sticking her hair to her forehead, he brushed her hair back, “You’re going to be alright.” he soothed as the shivers started racking her body once again.  “Paramedics are going to get here and we’ll get you to the hospital.  Just stay with me, keep your eyes on me, okay?”

She nodded slightly and John smiled at her, “That’s good.” he told her.  “You’re going to be fine.”

John continued to speak soothingly to her, irritated at his inability to do anything else without proper equipment.  It wasn’t more than a few minutes before she passed out again, he felt for a pulse.  “Shit.” he said before he laid her back out on the floor and began chest compressions.  “Where is that fucking ambulance?” John shouted.

Lestrade looked around helplessly, “Call them back and tell them to bring the AED in with them.” John said.

A few minutes later John heard the commotion behind him and Donovan was shouting “In here.” as she hurried into the room.  

The paramedics knelt down beside John and John quickly tore the camisole the girl was wearing to put the defibrillator pads in place.  “Clear.” he said as he pressed the button to send the electric current through her in hopes of restarting her heart.  He picked up her wrist once more, “She’s got a pulse.” he said, breathing a sigh of relief.  He turned to the paramedic, “It’s thready, so get her to the hospital as quickly as you can manage.”  As they loaded her onto the gurney he told them what he knew about the suspected poisoning and blood loss.    

A few minutes later the ambulance was on its way, its sirens screaming.  He turned to find Lestrade near him, looking at him speculatively.  John wasn’t ready for whatever it was he was going to ask, he looked down at his hands covered in blood and vomit, “Can I use a sink?”

“Errm.  Yeah.” Lestrade replied as though the question had been completely unexpected.  “Kitchen’s this way.” He lead him into the house once more and through the first door on the left.  John turned on the water and began scrubbing at his hands with some dish soap.  John glanced over at Lestrade where he stood watching him, "Any ideas who that girl is?" he asked.

"I'd guess it's the sister, Emily, I think their mother said her name was." Lestrade said. 

"You'd said she was living with her parents until she could find a job.  Where are the parents now?"

"Away on holiday." Lestrade said, "That was an awful conversation.  Imagine telling someone that their worst nightmare has just come true."

"I'm a doctor." John said ruefully, "I don't have to imagine it."

Lestrade shook his head, "They couldn't get ahold of Emily, they asked me if she was in the house and I said no.  They thought she might've gone to see a film."  He shook his head, "I told them their daughter hadn't been murdered but she was probably in the serial killer's hands at that very moment.  Christ."  He swallowed thickly, "I cleared the entire bloody house, he wasn't here."

John put a hand on his shoulder, "I believe you.  You couldn't have known." he said softly.  

“You probably just saved that girl’s life.” Lestrade said.

“I hope so.”

Lestrade was about to say something more when someone called him, “It’s fine.” John said.  “I’ll just finish washing up and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Lestrade nodded, "Thank you." he said softly but sincerely, "I'm glad you were here."

John grabbed his coat a few minutes later and was wandering around the house a bit, looking for Sherlock, when he ran into Donovan, “He’s gone.” she told him.

“Sherlock?” he asked, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Yeah.  He just took off.  He does that.”

“Right.” John said, turning around, “I’ll be going then.”

“You’re not his friend, you know.”

John felt his fists clench at his sides and he pivoted to look back at her.

“He doesn’t have friends.” Donovan said, taking a step closer to John and looking him up and down once more, “So who are you?”

“I’m...” John started, but then he paused, what was he meant to tell her?  Perhaps if he had some semblance of an idea of what he was to Sherlock an answer would be easier.  Should he tell her he was Sherlock’s friend, his flatmate, occasionally a lover?  The truth of the matter was that Sherlock didn’t seem to know quite what to do with John or how to fit him in his life. “I’m nobody.” John replied.

“Bit of free advice, then.” Donovan said, “Stay away from that guy.”

“Why?” John asked in a clipped tone, not because a word from her mouth would change his mind about Sherlock but because he simply couldn’t understand what it was she had against him.

“One day _this”_ she said, gesturing around them at the house, “Won’t be enough.  One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”

“Why would he do that?” John asked, very calm externally but his blood was boiling.  

“Because he’s a psychopath.” Donovan said.  “And psychopaths get bored.”

John had no doubt she would have said more but Lestrade called her from the other room, “Coming!” she called back.  She turned and headed toward Lestrade but shouted over her shoulder, “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”

John stomped out of the house, his anger barely concealed; how could Sherlock stand to work with these people?  As he stormed to the main road, he found a black car waiting for him.  Ares got out and held open the door with a cheeky grin, “Evening, Sir.”

John sighed and rubbed his hand over his forehead, was there no end to this trying day?  Defeated, he climbed in the car and was bustled off to Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to someday_apiary and DokiWulf; I truly appreciate your feedback in making this chapter feel a bit smoother and make more sense, I hope these edits helped. :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely feedback on the last chapter in particular. Cases are tricky for me to write, so I truly appreciate all of your kindness and honesty. This chapter will (hopefully) solve the mystery adequately. Concrit is always welcomed and encouraged.

_Sherlock_

Sherlock had truly thought he was going to catch the serial killer when he left the Martin's house.  He had John to thank, really, he might have gotten too preoccupied with the note if John had let him dwell on it and missed the tiny drops of blood that trailed from the window to the girl laying on the floor.  Once he’d followed the trail of blood to the window and found that it overlooked the porch on the first level he realized the killer must have carried the girl out the window and held her there while the police did their search.  Based on the blood spatter pattern, he must have slit the girl’s wrists outside the window before carrying her back inside and leaving her in the house once more for the detectives to find.

That was the trouble with intelligent killers, they were always so eager to get caught to prove their own brilliance.  What is a genius without an audience?  

But the girl had been a mistake.  He’d gotten sloppy and he’d left a loose end; he should have checked more carefully to ensure she was dead.  From what Sherlock could ascertain, the girl must have pretended she was dead at which point their killer would have deposited her back into the house for the police to find.  He was taunting them, he was right under their noses and he escaped; he got off on proving he was more clever than they were at every turn.

From there it hadn't been much of a leap to deduce that the murderer was still nearby.  He’d attempted to track the killer once he’d gotten outside, but the man had left no trace of himself anywhere and none of the neighbors had seen anyone out of the ordinary wandering around their neighborhood.  He wasn't quite sure how that was possible; how could people be so incredibly vacant, so ridiculously unobservant?  It was still light outside.  It had been in every single one of these murders; and yet no one saw a thing as the murderer came in, killed the victim and left all in broad daylight.  

He’d ended up back at Baker Street, lying on the sofa trying to figure out where the connection was between the women; they were all relatively young, reasonably pretty by conventional standards, and wealthy.  Could it really be something as banal as the killer having a type of women he hated?  The murders seemed too impersonal for that; he didn’t know a thing about those women.  He came in, slit their wrists, fed them some poison and left.  

And then there was the moniker he'd assigned them.   _The Lady._   What was that supposed to mean?  When searched alone, it brought up the women’s magazine and the film.  Then there were options such as The Lady or the Tiger, or The Lady Vanishes but none of them made any sense.  

He was missing something, he had to be.  The door slamming downstairs brought him out of his mind palace and he listened to John’s footsteps up the stairs; the weight and pace of his footfall told Sherlock he was irritated.  When he came in Sherlock caught the scent of expensive cologne and a new car.  He rolled his eyes and growled, “Mycroft.”  He sat up and watched John hang his coat before coming into the living room and sitting down in what Sherlock now referred to as ‘John’s armchair.’  John leaned his head back and closed his eyes in a weary gesture.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.  “He’s offered you money to spy on me.”

John hummed in agreement.

“Did you take it?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“No!” John said indignantly, his head lifting off the chair back to glare at Sherlock, “Of course I didn’t.”

“Pity.” Sherlock said, standing and running his fingers through his curls as he walked over to the window, “We could have split the fee.  Think it through next time.”

He didn’t need to be looking at John to know he was rolling his eyes and he couldn’t help the small grin that tipped up the corner of his lips.

He smoothed out his face and turned back around, “The lines have to represent something.” Sherlock said.

“Sorry.  Lines?” John asked, watching Sherlock pace.

“Yes.” Sherlock said impatiently, making a crude pantomime of taking a razor to his wrist. “They all have a different number of cuts.” he continued.  “The first victim had three as did Lisa, who was the fifth.  The second had four, the third had six which were marked as though they’d been a tally for keeping track of something, the fourth had seven, while the sixth only had two.”  Sherlock brought his hands to his lips and tapped his index fingers together, “But what is he counting?”

Sherlock began to pace once more “And why is he making them label themselves as 'the Lady' in their notes?  It’s as though he’s assigning them a role in a production.  If the victim were playing the part of a Lady what part would he be playing?” Sherlock mused.

“Oh I don’t know, the murderer, perhaps?” John offered sarcastically.

Sherlock turned and looked at John, “Oh.” he murmured.  No, it wasn’t the murderer it was something far more vague, just as “the Lady” didn’t really refer to the victim as a person but rather what being a Lady represented.  “It’s not _a_ it’s _the.”_ Sherlock said.  “It’s _the_ Lady referencing a title rather than a state of being.  He’s not the murderer, he’s death.”

“What?” John asked, clearly lost.

“Don’t you see, John?  He is death.  It’s why he strips them of their expensive clothes;  he’s taking away their privilege and their status.”  He opened the laptop on the table, which happened to be John’s, and put in the password, he pulled up the ballad.   _“Death and the_ _Lady_ was originally composed in the seventeenth century but has been recreated many times over.” he said as he handed the laptop to John.  “He’s making a social statement; death is an equalizing force.”

“Right.  Very clever, of course.” John said to Sherlock as he skimmed the poem, “But how does this help us stop him?”

“I’m working on it.” Sherlock’s phone pinged and he opened the message: **_Emily is alive and stable but in a medically induced coma to help her heal._ **

**So she won’t be able to tell us anything useful about her would-be killer.-SH**

**_Well, no.  But she’s alive and I count that as a win._ **

**Do you have anything useful?-SH**

**_Not yet, we’re still trying to figure out who Rachel is.  Tell John thanks again._ **

Sherlock looked up from the text, “Who is Rachel and why is Lestrade’s team trying to find her?”

“No idea who she is.” John replied, looking up from the laptop screen, apparently he'd taken Sherlock's silence as an opportunity to reread the ballad.  “Emily came to for a minute and that was the only word she got out.”  John shrugged, “I wouldn’t necessarily put too much stock in it.  She very well might have been delusional.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock hummed in dissention.  “Or she is trying to help us catch her would-be killer.”

“How?” John asked.

“I’m not sure yet.” Sherlock replied, taking the laptop back from John and moving over to the desk.  “But she was clever John; she tricked the murderer into thinking she was dead so she would have a chance at being saved.  Rachel must mean something.”

Sherlock folded his hands under his chin and pushed his brain to think.  “The grave’s the market place where all must meet, both rich and poor as well as small and great.  If life were merchandise, that gold could buy, the rich would live only the poor would die.” Sherlock murmured.  “Right, so we’re looking for a woman named Rachel, between the ages of 25 and 40, lower income, lives in London.”

“There are probably hundreds of women who fit that description.” John said incredulously as he walked over to look at the computer over Sherlock's shoulder.  "This is  _London_ we're talking about, not some small town."

“But there probably are not hundreds who died between three weeks and a month ago.”

“Wait, we’re looking for someone who is dead?”

“Of course!” Sherlock said impatiently as he typed  _announcements.telegraph.co.uk_  into the bar and searched death’s using the name ‘Rachel’ and the dates.  “Naturally, her death would have been the killer’s stressor.  Obviously her death couldn’t have been less than three weeks ago since that was when the murders began, and if it was his stressor it mustn’t have happened too much before that.”  

He pulled up a few announcement before he finally found a Rachel at the right age.  “Here.” he said, angling the computer so John could read over his shoulder, the announcement read:

_Rachel McCoy, beloved wife of Rev. James McCoy and mother of Adam McCoy passed away on the 9th October at age 35 after a 3 year battle with Leukemia.  Rachel was a dedicated teacher and her presence will be deeply missed._

_Services will be held the 12th October at Randalls Park Crematorium, Leatherhead, Surrey KT22 0AG._

“This is her.” Sherlock said, excitedly, “It has to be.  So we just need to track down James McCoy and we’ve found our murderer.”

“Reverend James McCoy.” John pointed out, “He’s a pastor Sherlock.  Do you really think a _pastor_ is going around murdering people?  It sort of seems against the job description.”

Sherlock shrugged, “It fits.  Surely the blatant Christian references in _Death and the Lady_ didn’t escape your notice.” he said, but his brain was already spinning away.  John was right, something didn’t fit quite right.  This still didn’t explain how he came and went from the crime scene so effortlessly and invisibly.  He stood up and wandered to look out the window while he thought a bit more.  

A car horn went off on the street below and Sherlock glanced toward a cab just as a dark haired man was climbing out of the driver’s seat.  He looked directly up at Sherlock and gave a mock salute, a cocky grin on his lips.  

 _Of course._  That was how he hadn’t been seen, who noticed a cab driving down the street?  There was nothing so common in London as a black cab.  He'd probably watched Sherlock walk around the neighborhood trying to sniff him out like a bloodhound, asking everyone he came across about suspicious activity.  Then he'd followed him back to Baker Street and waited for Sherlock to notice him.  The only question now was how a Reverend had come to have a cab to drive.

“Text Lestrade.” Sherlock said, as he turned away from the window and headed toward the door.  “Tell him we know who Rachel is, see if he can pick up Adam McCoy and question him.  I don't like children.”

“Where are you going?” John asked, taking a step toward Sherlock.

“Nowhere.” Sherlock said casually, as he slipped into his coat.  “Just getting a bit of fresh air, I want to cement a few things in my head.”

“Want some company?” John offered.

Sherlock scoffed at him as he tied his scarf around his neck, “I’m just going for a walk, I think I can manage.  Besides, the point of cementing things in my mind is not having to listen to someone else talk.” he said as he breezed out of flat and down the stairs

Once he was outside he crossed the street to where the man who’d gotten out of the cab was standing.  He looked younger up close than Sherlock had expected.  Before Sherlock could say a word he said, "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist.  You're like a dog with a bone."  McCoy opened the car door, “Get in the car, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock laughed, “Unlikely.” he replied.  “Why would I get in your car instead of calling the police?”

“Because if you call the police I will get back in my car and disappear.  I’ll leave my car somewhere but no one will be able to find me.” He grinned at Sherlock, “I've had a fair bit of practice blending in, I’m actually quite good at it.”

Sherlock climbed into the cab and McCoy climbed back into the driver's seat before pulling away from the curb.  “I’m not sure how you think you’re going to overpower me.” Sherlock said.  “I’m a lot more fit than the girls you’ve been killing.”

He gave him a crooked grin in the mirror, “We’ll see about that.”  He drove for less than three minutes before holding up a revolver for Sherlock to see.

“Really?  A gun to threaten people." Sherlock complained.  “How pedestrian.  And you were doing so well.”

He rolled his eyes, “Come on.” he said, “Into the house.”  He nodded at the building to his left and Sherlock followed his eyes.

With a sigh Sherlock got out, he rather doubted the man would use the gun once they were inside; it went against the rules of his game.  His odds of making it out were much better if he went inside, he just had to make sure he didn’t swallow any poison.

McCoy walked behind him, the gun hidden from view by his coat but definitely still a real threat.  Once they were inside he closed the door and prodded Sherlock along into the kitchen.

“Wouldn’t it be smarter to put me in a room with no windows?” Sherlock asked as he sat down at the kitchen table with his back facing the aforementioned window.  “Someone could walk past the window in the house next door and see us at any moment.”

The man smiled at him, his dark eyes glinted dangerously. “The house next door is empty, too.  I did a bit of work to find this place after I left you at your little flat.  This is the only room whose window faces a location I know no one else will be in.”  He sighed, “I confess, I’m not entirely sure what to do with you.  I have no interest in killing you the way I kill those women, it doesn’t fit my story.  You aren’t drowning in opulent wealth, I suspect you aren’t going to beg and plead for your life; so this,” he said as he drew a straight razor from his pocket, and tossed it down on the table between them, “Is going to be useless.  You are an anomaly I hadn’t prepared for.”

“While you decide what to do with me,” Sherlock deadpanned, “Indulge my curiosity, explain why you marks tallies on their wrists.  What are you counting?”

“Very good.” the man all but cooed with a chuckle.  “It’s simple really.  It’s the number of excuses they give or the number of times they beg.  For instance if a woman says ‘Please don’t kill me I have a child.’ she gets the first slash.  Or if she says, ‘I have money, I’ll give you whatever you want.’ she gets another.”

“And you stop when she stops trying to persuade you not to kill her.”

“Exactly!  When she’s given up, when she’s accepted her fate, I put her out of her misery.  There’s no sense in being needlessly cruel, it can take a long time to bleed out otherwise.”

“What would your wife and congregation say, _Reverend_ McCoy?” Sherlock asked, the longer he kept him talking the longer he had to think of a way out of this.

The man laughed, “And you were doing so well.” he parrotted back mockingly at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “Aren’t you here because of Rachel McCoy?”

“Yes but I’m not James McCoy, he’s my step father.  Rachel McCoy was my mother.”  Adam shrugged, "Although, I suppose he could be blamed for the death those other women came to.  He introduced me to  _Death and the Lady_ when I was a child and something he said in the eulogy jogged my memory.  In a way he set all of this in motion."

“But she was only 38 when she died.” Sherlock said, “You’re too old to be her son.”

“I’m afraid not, she was 16 years old when she had me.  Her parents disowned her and for the first ten years of my life it was just the two of us.  She waitressed and took classes and raised me all on her own.  She was incredible.  Her life was worth more than all of those other women combined.” he said.

“There’s always something.” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

“Well, this has been lovely, but I’m afraid this is the end of line.  Sorry you won’t even be part of the message I am trying to spread.  I fear your death will be quite meaningless.”  He emptied the cylinder and held up a single bullet for Sherlock to see before slipping it back in its chamber.  He gave the cylinder a quick spin and put it back in place.  “May as well make it a little fun.” he said, winking at Sherlock.  “Maybe you’ll rethink the begging bit.”

He drew back the hammer and Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled, he had a one in six chance the gun wasn’t going to fire a bullet.  He opened his eyes and lunged for the straight razor as a shot rang out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious, here's a link for "Death and the Lady:" http://www.contemplator.com/england/death.html


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no words to say how much I appreciate all of the kind words that have been posted in response to this work. I am always completely blown away by how wonderful and sweet everyone has been. From the very depths of my being, thank you. <3

_John_

Contrary to what Sherlock Holmes seemed to think, John Watson was not stupid.  Had John not grown up with a sister who was a master at sneaking off to places she wasn’t supposed to be, John might have been fooled by Sherlock’s claim that he was just going out for a walk.  But as it stood, John was not as gullible as one might be led to believe.  

More to the point, John was rapidly becoming an expert on all things Sherlock Holmes.  He may not be a master of deduction, but he’d seen the way Sherlock’s head had cocked a bit and the way his brow had smoothed out as he looked out the window; he knew that look, Sherlock had figured out something that had been perplexing him with this killer.  He also knew that when Sherlock wanted to ‘cement something in his mind,’ he did so sitting or lying down; often with his eyes shut.  He definitely wasn’t storing anything or recalling anything from his mind palace if he was strolling around London.

So as Sherlock rushed out the door, John sent off a text to Lestrade per Sherlock’s request before moving to the window and looking down at the street below.  From where he stood he could see Sherlock talking with a cabbie who was entirely unpleasant looking, John didn't trust him one bit.  He turned and went downstairs, mentally preparing himself for a confrontation with Sherlock to convince him to re-evaluate his questionable taste in cab drivers, only to find that Sherlock had already gotten in the bloody car and was headed to heaven only knows where.

“Damn it, Sherlock.” John muttered as he dug his phone out of his pocket, memorizing the license plate and resentfully dialing a number he had no interest in ever calling, but especially didn't want to call right now.  His conversation with Mycroft this afternoon had not gone well.  He wasn't sure how Mycroft could have imagined that John would be willing to report back to him about Sherlock's life at Baker Street with him for any amount of money he could offer.  Perhaps he felt he could justify it by telling John he wasn't asking for anything "indiscreet" or anything John would "feel uncomfortable sharing."  But it certainly didn't justify it to John.  He thought he'd made his position on accepting Mycroft's money abundantly clear the first time they had met, but apparently he'd been mistaken.   

The phone rang twice before it was answered, “Dr. Watson.  What a pleasant surprise.” There was a short pause before he continued, “Well, I say surprise.” Mycroft drawled.  His smugness was almost palpable and John was completely ready to hang up the phone, if he hadn’t thought Sherlock’s life was in danger he certainly would have.  “You’ve reconsidered my offer, then?”

“No, I bloody well didn’t.” John snapped.  “I still don’t want your bloody money and I won’t be at your beck and call to tell you whatever inane details you want to know about Sherlock.”

“Then why did you call?” Mycroft asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

John felt a vindictive stab of pleasure that he had managed to surprise Mycroft Holmes before saying, “I need to you track a cab.”

“A cab?” Mycroft asked before huffing, “I do have _important_ things to do, you know.  Furthermore, I’m not sure why I would help you as you are currently so blatantly refusing to help me.”

“Because it’s a cab with Sherlock in it along with a murderer, if my guess is right.”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone before Mycroft said, “Well, I can hardly track a cab without any details.”

“Right, it’s a black cab, license plate S896 FGU.  It was on Baker Street outside our flat less than two minutes ago.  I need to know where it’s going.” John said as he headed back into the flat and took the stairs up to his bedroom two at a time.

“Give me a moment.” Mycroft said.

“Well a moment’s about all you can have.” John replied tersely, “I don’t fancy leaving Sherlock alone with this madman.”  He pulled open the drawer in his nightstand, pushing aside all of the junk until he found his Browning which he’d purchased illegally when he was sixteen.  He checked to ensure it was loaded and that the safety was on while he waited.  

“Right.” Mycroft said, “It looks like the cab is stopped outside of 26 Knox Street, but the cameras weren’t pointed in the right direction for me to know which house they went into.  Let me do a bit of digging into cameras that aren’t controlled by my people.  I’ll get back to you.”

“Right, as quickly as you can.”

Mycroft huffed an impatient sigh and hung up without further reply.

John came back downstairs, tucking the gun into the back of his jeans, before setting off at a jog toward Knox street, watching for a cab as he went.  Finally he managed to flag one down and climbed in, “26 Knox Street.  Hurry please.”

A few minutes later they pulled up, John paid the man and climbed out, glancing down at his phone to see if he'd received any word from Mycroft yet.  Grimacing, he put his phone away, unfortunately there wasn't time to wait for Mycroft to get back to him.  He looked around at the houses and tried to think like Sherlock.  Logically, the killer had to have chosen an empty house, he wouldn’t have taken Sherlock into a house full of other people, he wouldn't want to murder Sherlock in front of them.  The trouble was that there were at least four houses in the general vicinity of the cab that didn’t have any lights on or have any signs of movement inside as far as John could tell.  How was he supposed to pick one?

The four houses were all fairly similar, at least to John's eye.  All of them were your average sort of house; nothing too extravagant, but they were nice enough.  Based on what they knew about the killer, he probably would want to kill Sherlock in the most opulent house; it seemed like that would serve to further his message about humbling the wealthy best.  He looked around, biting his lip as he tried to decide and finally settled on the blue one with an attached garage and a bird fountain in the yard.  John didn't know much about the value of houses and he was suddenly regretting the fact that he tuned Harry out when she talked about her estate clients.

He shook his head, he didn’t have time to waste trying to figure out this killer's psyche; he’d just have to check all of them until he found the one Sherlock was in.  John set off toward the blue house directly across the street from the car and knocked before he entered, fervently hoping that the house didn’t have some nice little old woman whom he would scare to death as he pulled out his gun and went inside.  He moved around the house from room to room quickly, always leading with his gun, and listening for any sign of struggle.  John followed the halls around, checking each room until he'd circled back and reached the sitting room once more.  

The house was empty, John let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and he lowered the gun.  His heart was hammering and he could practically feel the adrenaline humming through his veins, they were running out of time.  He had to find Sherlock.  He was about to leave when movement in the house next door caught his eye.  He moved to the window and looked through to see the back of Sherlock's head where he sat, the cabbie standing across the table with a revolver raised and pointed right at Sherlock.  

John didn’t even stop to think, he raised the gun, aimed, exhaled, and pulled the trigger.  The bullet smashed through the window in the house he was in, then the window in the house next door before embedding itself dead center in the cabbie’s forehead.  The man dropped to the floor and John waited to make sure he didn't get up again.  

He watched as Sherlock jerked back in surprise and then stood to look over the table at the man lying on the floor.  John realized a split second before it happened that Sherlock was going to turn around and move to the window to see who had fired the shot.  John ducked out past the window and sprinted toward the kitchen where he'd seen a backdoor in his initial sweep of the house. 

He left the house and headed back to Baker Street to hide his gun and change his clothes before returning to the crime scene.  He got quite an earful from Donovan about the killer, _Adam_ McCoy and not the Reverend after all.  He listened and responded appropriately but his mind was miles away as he wondered whether Sherlock knew he was the shooter or not, and what, if anything, he was going to do with the information if he did.

When Donovan was summoned away, John wandered over to the police cars and watched Sherlock where he sat on the back of an ambulance with a hideous orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he talked to Lestrade.  His eyes scanned across the crowd becoming coming to rest on John.  Sherlock paused in whatever he was saying, narrowing his eyes slightly at John, before he snapped his mouth shut and turned back to Lestrade.

John did his best to standby and look innocent as the police brought out Adam McCoy’s body and walked it right past him.  A few minutes later Sherlock was moving toward him, unwrapping himself from the blanket and tossing it in one of the cars on his way through.

John cleared his throat and started to speak, feeling strangely nervous and flayed open under Sherlock’s piercing gaze in a way he never had before.  “Donovan was just telling me what happened.  Nasty business, cutting those girls' wrists every time they begged for mercy.” John tsked.  “It’s dreadful."  He couldn't help the way his eyes raked over Sherlock's body, reassuring himself that Sherlock was indeed safe.  "Are you alright?  She said he had you at gunpoint.” He shook his head, “Maybe next time you won’t go haring off without backup.”

“Good shot.” Sherlock said softly, ignoring all of the words pushing out of John's mouth.

John cleared his throat and looked away from Sherlock, a blush tinting his cheeks, he was a terrible liar and he knew it.  “Yeah.” John confirmed, “Through that window, it must have been.”

“Well you’d know.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.  “You’ll need to get those powder burns out of your fingers; I don’t imagine you’d do any jail time for this, but let’s avoid the whole mess altogether, yes?”

John looked down at his hands briefly before looking back up at Sherlock, he somehow found himself a bit surprised that Sherlock wasn't turning him in.  He was working with the police after all and John had just killed a man.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked softly.

“Of course I am.” John said, blinking at the unexpected concern that almost bordered on sentiment.

Sherlock snorted, “Well you have just killed a man.”

“Yes, I...” John’s voice trailed off and the reality of that thought truly hit him for the first time.  “I suppose I have.” he finished, staring off into space for a moment, evaluating whether he felt any differently about himself or not.  He prodded around in his emotions for a moment and felt nothing but relief that Sherlock hadn’t been hurt; he knew without a doubt, given the same circumstances, he would do the exact same thing again in a heartbeat.  He turned to look up at Sherlock, “But he wasn’t a very nice man.”

Sherlock let out a surprised laugh, “No, he really wasn’t was he?”

“And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.” John added with a grin that he couldn't quite keep off his face.

“You should have seen the route he took to get us here.” Sherlock quipped as they set off down the sidewalk.

John spluttered out a laugh, "We can't laugh at a crime scene." John said through a few giggles he couldn't quite contain.  "It's indecent."

"Well whose fault is it that this is a crime scene?" Sherlock parried.  

John laughed again and shushed Sherlock as the walked past Donovan who turned glared at the two of them, “Sorry.” John said, “Must be the nerves.”

“Sorry.” Sherlock added, turning to give Sally a grin that wasn’t quite sincere before turning back to John.  “Dinner?”

“Starving.” John replied.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings! Sorry for the little bit of a delay between the last chapter and this one. Real life seems to get in the way of doing the things I enjoy far too often. 
> 
> Thank you all, once again, for your lovely, kind comments on the last chapter. You all know the way to make a girl's heart very happy. <3

_Sherlock_

Resisting the temptation to kiss John was the most difficult temptation Sherlock had ever had to face and he was a recovering drug addict.  John was practically glowing from the thrill of the chase and probably from the fact that he had just saved Sherlock’s life.  Truth be told, Sherlock had been a bit worried that John would have a crisis of conscience and turn himself in, but he'd been pleased to find John didn’t seem to feel the slightest bit tempted to walk over and tell Lestrade he had been the one to shoot Adam McCoy.

They had begun walking down the street without any real destination in mind, it was late enough that most restaurants wouldn’t be open but Sherlock hadn't eaten since breakfast and was surprisingly hungry now.  “There’s a Chinese place a block from our flat, we can get takeaway there and bring it home.” Sherlock offered.

“Perfect.” John said looking over at him and grinning that easy grin that made Sherlock's heart skip a beat.

They’d gone to the restaurant and ordered food; while they'd waited, Sherlock had joked with John about being able to deduce the fortune cookies and John had laughed and told him to try.  So Sherlock had tapped into his inner Wendell and made up the most ridiculous fortunes he could think of.  There was something about making John laugh that lifted Sherlock’s spirit and no matter how hard he tried to stop himself from becoming attached to that sound he couldn’t seem to manage it.  Making John happy was proving a more potent drug than any other he'd encountered and he found himself coming back for another hit of time and again.

As they climbed the stairs to their flat, John told Sherlock about his day at work before they’d met at the crime scene. Sherlock found himself chuckling along with some of the ridiculous things that his patients did and becoming frustrated on John's behalf at how infuriating some of his patients and coworkers could be.  Frankly, he was surprised by how easily he could empathize with John, how easy it was to simply be with John.  He’d never experienced this sort of camaraderie with someone else before and he found that he quite enjoyed having someone to just talk to even if not having sex with said human was the hardest thing he’d ever tried to do.

"Let's eat in the living room." John said when the reached the doorway leading into the kitchen.

"Why?" Sherlock asked poking his head around John to look into the kitchen.

"We don't seem to have much space on the kitchen table at the moment.” John said, gesturing at the kitchen table which was currently covered in ash samples.

“Ah.” Sherlock said, “Apologies.” He'd left in such a hurry to get to the crime scene that he hadn't cleaned up anything.

John chuckled, “It’s fine, at least it wasn't an experiment with fingers or something, imagine the stench that would have made.  I'm glad to see you started your ash experiments, though." he said with a grin as he handed Sherlock the bag he’d been carrying.  "I’m sure some day ash will be the key to you solving a case brilliantly that no one else could even begin to see the answer to.” he chuckled, a far off look in his eyes as though he was imagining it in his mind.  “I’ll grab drinks and plates.”

Sherlock shook his head but couldn’t keep the small smile off his face as he went into the living room and took the containers of the food out of the bag and set them out on the table.  He sat down on the floor and tossed the medical journal John had been working his way through over onto the chair so food didn’t get spilled on it.

“Cheers.” John said as he came into the room.

Sherlock reached up and took the plates from John and set them out while John uncorked a bottle of champagne Mycroft had brought them when they’d moved in.

“It might not have been something that either of us wanted as congratulations for moving into a flat, but I think after how incredibly brilliant you were in solving this case, we deserve to celebrate.” John said as he handed a glass to Sherlock.  “Perhaps it’s not the best mix with Chinese take away, but it’ll have to do.”

“Cheers.” Sherlock said, raising his glass to John.  “A girl is alive thanks to your skills and a man is dead thanks to an entirely different set of skills, both of which proved to be equally useful today.”

John touched his glass to Sherlock’s and took a sip before saying, “You’re going to have to let that go.” he shook his head ruefully, “It was nothing.”

“Well, you saved my life and I’m grateful.” Sherlock said honestly.

“You’re welcome.” John said glancing at him with a soft smile that made Sherlock's heart flutter in a completely preposterous way before he cleared his throat and moved on to dishing out food.

They continued to chat about inane things as they ate and Sherlock knew without a doubt he would have been bored out of his mind talking about these things with anyone else.  But with John it was different, he was so genuine in all that he said and did.  He was incredibly expressive and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel drawn in by John, he was captivated by him in a way he’d never been with anyone else.

As the meal began winding down and both of them were merely picking at their food and nudging it around on their plates, more as a means of prolonging their evening than because they were still hungry, Sherlock noticed John had a bit of sauce on his face.  He was about to say something when his brain reminded him of the honey incident for the thousandth time today.  With a smirk, he leaned across the coffee table and wiped the corner of John’s mouth with his thumb.

John froze for a heartbeat before a matching grin broke out across his face as well and his hand shot out and caught Sherlock’s wrist in it's grasp.  He turned his head slightly, maintaining eye contact all the while, and enclosed Sherlock’s finger in the wet heat of his mouth, running his tongue over the pad of his thumb before sucking lightly.  Sherlock froze, his mouth open, a flush tinting his cheeks as John sucked.  His cock, which he’d been fighting all evening anyway, gave a twitch in his trousers.

John blinked and the moment was over.  “Sorry.” he said a bit sheepishly as he released Sherlock’s thumb.  “I didn’t-”

But Sherlock didn’t give him the chance to say anything more.  He dove across the coffee table and pressed his lips to John’s.

John groaned against his mouth and reciprocated, running his tongue along Sherlock’s lower lip before nipping at it.  Sherlock raked his fingers through John’s hair, scratching his nails against John’s scalp.  He wanted to positively devour this man; he wanted to consume him.  His brain was singing with the pleasure of being this close to John, his body longed to press every inch of itself against John’s, his fingers wanted to comb through his hair and sink into his muscles, his lips wanted to stay connected with John’s and never leave, and his tongue wanted to taste every inch of him.

"Sherlock." John groaned into Sherlock's mouth as his hands came up to tenderly cradle Sherlock's face.  

The tenderness and open affection in the gesture made his chest ache.  It made him feel like something was breaking inside of him, it made him feel like he wanted to cry.  It was like being doused in cold water.  Reality came crashing back in and Sherlock remembered all the reasons this wouldn’t work.  It made his chest physically ache but he drew back from John.  

He couldn't bear to look at him, he didn’t want to see the hurt and the disappointment on his face.  He didn’t think he could handle seeing the desire that was bound to be written plainly on John’s face either.  "I'm sorry." he said as he stood up. "I shouldn't have done that." Without another word he fled to his room and closed the door.

He slid down onto the floor with his back against the door, feeling shaky and lost.  This was ridiculous.  His own body was betraying him in the most ludicrous way imaginable.  His lack of control over his transport was appalling.  John had buried himself under Sherlock’s skin and it was like an itch which continued to itch even after being scratched until it bled.   

There had to be something for it, there must be some way around this mess that didn’t entail a relationship.  But the degree to which John distracted Sherlock was completely unacceptable.  How long had he spent even in just the past week thinking about John in completely non-platonic ways?  He didn’t even want to contemplate it because he knew the answer would be abhorrent.

When looked at in a critical, rational light, it seemed his trouble was mostly of a physical nature; Sherlock wasn’t feeling like his “emotional needs,” if he had such a thing, were being unmet.  Therefore, logically, the solution to his problem must also be a solution of a physical nature.  Perhaps he could go out and find strangers to have sex with and meet his body’s needs.  He could be charming enough for short bouts of time if no real or lasting connection was required.  

The trouble with this idea was that Sherlock had never really had much of a sex drive apart from the entity that was John Watson.  He’d never been particularly interested in sex to be honest, and sex (apart from the first time he’d had it with John) had been a rather dismal and unenjoyable affair.  Somehow, going out to the pub and having sex with a complete stranger sounded incredibly unappealing.

Perhaps this was a good portion of the reason he found the idea of his body all but rebelling against him in favor of shagging John so outrageous.  This had quite literally never been an issue before him.

The only thing that he could think of to stop his body from spinning so madly out of his control was to just give in and have sex with John Watson.  Clearly, based on the way John had reacted in the living room, he was amenable to the idea of sex with Sherlock.  

The trouble was that Sherlock really had no interest in the relationship bit; it wouldn’t work, he would just end up leading John on with ideas and hopes that he could never live up to.  Sherlock simply couldn’t bare it.  He couldn’t be what was expected of a partner in a relationship and John would undoubtedly want that.  

But, his mind rationalized, people who were friends sometimes had sex.  In fact, it seemed to be such a common occurrence that there was a name for it, wasn’t there?  Maybe he could persuade John to just be flatmates who occasionally had sex.  He could be rather persuasive when he wanted to be, and he seemed to excel in talking John into seeing things his way.  Mind made up, he stood up and marched up the stairs to John’s room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short because I split this chapter into 2 parts because I know some readers don't really like to read smut. (The next chapter will be Sherlock's POV as well). So if you are one of those readers, you can skip the next chapter without really missing much; if you are a reader that happens to enjoy smut (like I am. haha) the next chapter will be up very shortly and will be rather smutty.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings,
> 
> Sorry this has taken so long to post, my work has been a bear lately. 
> 
> Fair warning to the lovely readers who really don't like smut, this chapter will probably not be your cup of tea. You can skip it and you won't really miss much. To the lovely readers who like reading smut, enjoy!

_ Sherlock _

Sherlock climbed the stairs to John’s room, taking them two at a time on his way up and once he reached the top of the steps his hand shot out and rapped on the door before he could even think twice about it.  This proved to be problematic when John responded from within the room, inviting him in, and Sherlock realized he hadn’t the foggiest idea about how to propose this idea to John.

A few moments later the door opened revealing John in his pajamas, his hair already a bit mussed from the pillows. 

“Alright?” John asked, his eyes dragging down Sherlock’s body before they came back up to his face.  “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want a relationship.” Sherlock burst out.

“Okay?” John said, rubbing his eyes in a weary gesture, clearly befuddled.  “That’s not anything new, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and heaved a long suffering sigh, did he have to spell eveything out for him?  “I don’t want a relationship but I would very much like to have sex.” Sherlock clarified.

“Oh.” John said, a small grin appearing on his face before he asked, “To be clear, you do mean that you want to have sex with  _ me _ , yeah?”

“No.” Sherlock said sarcastically, “I want to have sex with your slippers.” he rolled his eyes.  “Of course I want to have sex with you, you idiot.  You know, it’s a thing...” he trailed off, waving his hands and hoping John would be able to fill in the blanks.  When John continued to stare blankly at him, he elaborated, “When two people who are friendly with one another also happen to have sex with one another when the mood strikes.”

“Do you mean you want to be friends with benefits?” John asked.  When Sherlock nodded once, he said, “Alright.” 

Sherlock started speaking before his brain caught up with what John had said, “It’s a fairly commonplace occurrence, I’ve been led to believe.  And sex itself has many benefits including heart health, lower blood pressure, stress relief, and improved quality of sleep.  Furthermore, some research shows a possible correlation between sex and decreased chances of prostate cancer.” 

“Sherlock.” John said holding up a hand to stop the words pouring out of his mouth.  “You don’t have to sell me on it.  I already said alright.”

“Alright?” he asked incredulously, “That’s it?”

John shrugged “I’m not sure what you were hoping I would say.” he replied, cocking an eyebrow at him.  “Did you think I would say no?  Of course I want to have sex with you, Sherlock.  You’re stunning and sometimes just looking at you is enough to get me going.  And your brain, don’t even get me started on how fucking sexy you are when you’re deducing things.  And then-”

“Stop right there.” Sherlock said firmly, feeling himself flush; his heart fluttered and he had to shut it down immediately.  John closed his jaw with a click.  “If we have sex, it has to be devoid of personal attachments.  No endearments, no emotional components, just sex.”

John bit his lip as he thought about what Sherlock was proposing.  “I don’t know if I can do that.” John said slowly.  “It’s not that I don’t want to, but I’m just not sure if I can.”

“It’s not that hard, John.” Sherlock said impatiently, “And it’s the only way this,” he said gesturing between the two of them, “Happens.”

“Right.” John said.  “Any other rules?”

Sherlock shrugged, surprised at how easily John had given in, “I don’t think so, but if I come up with more along the way I’ll let you know.” 

John pulled the door open further and gestured for Sherlock to enter, “Do you want to come in, then?”

“Ummm.  Yes.  I suppose that is rather the point.” Sherlock mumbled stepping inside and looking around at John’s room, everything tidy and in its place.

John closed the door and before Sherlock had the chance to question how they should begin, John pressed him back against the door, his lips descending on Sherlock's not a moment later; sighing into the contact and molding his body firmly against his.

Sherlock groaned and shuddered as his body was flooded with all of the feelings and sensations he’d been craving for days.  His penis, which had already been half hard when he’d come upstairs, filled out completely and without a conscious thought he found himself rutting against John’s thigh, John reached down and pressed his palm to Sherlock's erection through his trousers.  Sherlock panted and pressed into John’s hand eagerly.  “This” he said punctuating his word with a roll of his hips, “Is getting rather irritating and it’s impeding my thinking.  I believe if we can just have sex I can think about that less and about other things more.”

John’s hands untucked Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers and slid up under Sherlock’s shirt rubbing along his ribs, “Do you think about sex with me often, then?” he teased before running his tongue along the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock shuddered against him, flushing, “I didn’t say that.”

“But it was implied.” John replied with a grin before nipping at Sherlock’s earlobe, “What do you think about?” John asked.  Sherlock squirmed against the wall, his arousal spiking at the reminder of the sort of thoughts he’d had about sex with John.  

“Do you imagine me kissing you?” John asked, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s, his eyes fluttering shut.  He lingered on his lips for a moment, sucking Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth before releasing him once more.  “Do you imagine me sucking on your neck?” John asked as kissed along Sherlock’s jaw and he licked and sucked at his pulse point.  Sherlock tilted his head to the side to allow John more room, letting out a breathy moan and John took full advantage of it sucking and nipping at the delicate skin there.

“Do you imagine me undressing you?” John asked, his voice husky and low as he began unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt.  “Or do you imagine me sucking and biting your nipples?”  He slid the shirt down over Sherlock’s shoulders.  “I remember how fantastically sensitive they were.” John said as he rolled the hard nubs of Sherlock’s nipples between his fingers and pinched lightly.

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he let out a tiny moan.  John rubbed his thumbs over his nipples again and Sherlock’s back arched up off the door, his hands scrabbling for something to hold on to as John continued.

John let his hand trail lower, he leaned in close to Sherlock once more, “Do you imagine me taking off your trousers?” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear.  Sherlock nodded his head, his eyes still closed as John toyed with the buttons on the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers.

“What do you imagine me doing when I take them off?” John asked as he unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers to trail his fingers teasingly along Sherlock’s pants covered erection, feeling the wet patch already spreading there.  “Do you imagine me taking you in my hand and stroking you until you come?  Do you imagine me getting down on my knees and sucking you off?  Do you imagine fucking me?  Do you imagine me fucking you?” Sherlock shuddered at the thought.  John Watson had a filthy mouth.

John pushed Sherlock’s trousers and pants down over his hips.  He took Sherlock’s cock in his hand and stroked it firmly, spreading the precome around the tip.  “Do you imagine it soft and slow?” he asked, sliding his fingers along Sherlock’s cock almost teasingly and making him shudder.  “Or hard and fast?” he asked, speeding up his rhythm and pumping Sherlock’s cock for a few moments until Sherlock’s thighs were quivering before backing off once more.

He leaned up and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips once again, letting his hand give Sherlock’s cock one last stroke before he pulled back fully.  He pulled his own t-shirt off over his head before sliding his pajama bottoms and pants down and standing naked in front of Sherlock whose eyes roamed down John’s body.  He had a stunning figure that invited Sherlock to reach out and touch him everywhere.  The feeling that he simply wanted to devour John rose up once again and he wasn’t even sure where to begin.

John took his hand and tugged Sherlock into bed, pulling him out of his own mind and pressing him down on his back before crawling in between his thighs.  He sucked and kissed his way up Sherlock’s stomach and abdomen, taking a moment to nibble on each of his nipples, Sherlock shuddered and his hands came up to dig into John’s shoulders, John groaned at the contact and continued his path up Sherlock’s body before sucking another bruise into the delicate skin of his neck.

He slid up until their hips were lined up, their cocks pressing together and they both let out a groan.  John reached down and wrapped his hand around both of their erections, pressing their heads together.  “You're so wet.  So fucking hot." John growled.  

Sherlock groaned and wrapped his legs around John’s waist, bucking up against him.  “Please.” he whispered.

John began stroking their cocks and thrusting his hips simultaneously.  Sherlock found himself making the most ridiculous noises at the contact, but he couldn't find it in himself to care, couldn't find any trace of shame.   

Sherlock’s hips juddered up against John’s and John groaned and kissed Sherlock’s lips.  “Fuck you feel amazing.” he murmured against his lips.

“John.” Sherlock groaned, rubbing his hands along John’s back and shoulders, before reaching up to run his fingers through the short, soft hairs at the nape of John’s neck.  He tugged John’s lips to his once more, shuddering against John as he stroked their cocks steadily.

“Are you going to come for me, Sherlock?” John asked, moving his head so he could kiss the sensitive skin behind Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock groaned, his hips snapping up into John’s fist erratically as his body roared toward the edge.  “John.” he said again.  It was the only word his hormone addled brain could form in its entirety.  He could feel John’s cock beginning to twitch against his and knew John was fighting off his own orgasm, knew that he was just as turned on by this entire proceeding as Sherlock was.  

John added a twist to his wrist when he reached the head of Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock lost it.  He let out a long groan as his cock erupted spectacularly across John’s fist, painting both of them with his come.  John moaned out Sherlock’s name and followed him over the edge immediately after.

John flopped down on top of Sherlock with a satisfied groan.  Sherlock allowed himself this one moment to soak up the attention and the nearness of John, gently running his fingers through John’s hair and rubbing his spine.

“S’nice.” John mumbled into the skin of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock chuckled, “You are always a surprise to me, John Watson.”  
  
With a groan John lifted himself off of Sherlock and reached over the side of the bed to grab his t-shirt.  “How have I surprised you?” he asked curiously as he wiped the ejaculate off of himself and Sherlock.

“You have a filthy mouth.”

John looked up at him, “Sorry.  I dated a bloke once who was really into it and sometimes it gets the better of me.  I can stop.”

“No!” Sherlock all but shouted, mentally cursing himself for the abruptness of his reply.  He cleared his throat, “It was most enjoyable.”

John grinned and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, lingering a moment longer than was strictly necessary before pulling back.  “Good.  I’m glad.”  He yawned and tugged the covers up.  “Are you staying?”

“Oh.” Sherlock said, feeling himself blush, he hadn’t thought this far ahead.  “No.  We’re not doing the affectionate bits like cuddling, and randomly kissing, and holding hands, and all the other contrived relationship nonsense, remember?” he started to roll away.

John tugged on his arm, “It’s not affection.” he replied.  “I’d let anyone I just had sex with stay in my bed.  As you might remember, I do rather love a good cuddle.”

Sherlock snorted and pulled away from John; as much as he would love to stay and sleep in John’s bed, he knew he couldn’t keep his distance emotionally if he did.  He stood up and pulled on his pants and trousers, clearing his throat a bit awkwardly as he slipped his shirt over his shoulders.  “Well.  Thank you.”

John laughed, “My pleasure.” he said.  “Sleep well, if you get cold and change your mind you’re always welcome to come back upstairs.”

“Right.” Sherlock said with a nod, “Well.  Good night.”

“Night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock went downstairs once more, feeling content with the arrangement he and John had made.


	25. Chapter 25

_John_

Not much had changed in the past two weeks since Sherlock had appeared in John’s doorway proclaiming he wanted to have sex.  John still went to work at the hospital, Sherlock still puttered around with experiments and went to class when the mood struck, John still went to visit his mother in the hospital, Sherlock still sulked and moped on the sofa out of boredom.  Sherlock still ran around the city chasing dangerous criminals and blowing John’s mind with his brilliance, and John still chased after Sherlock and did his best to keep him safe.  

The difference was now when they came home from cases Sherlock would press him up against the door, or tug him upstairs to John’s bedroom, or drag him over to the couch.  Now when Sherlock was moaning about how bored he was, John would just come over to the sofa and give him something better to moan about.  The sex was fantastic.  

Regardless of the delusion Sherlock seemed to be laboring under, John couldn’t help but view this as a relationship.  He wasn’t sure how Sherlock didn’t, to be honest.  They spent all of their free time together, they lived together, and they had sex.  And, frankly, the amount of affection John harbored for Sherlock was ridiculous.  Sherlock may not want to do the affection bit, but it was inevitable where John was concerned.  He just had to work hard to keep any of it from spilling from his mouth.

That did not mean, however, that John didn’t endeavor to show his affection to Sherlock day in and day out in every way he could muster.  He tried to make his gestures seem casual and at first, Sherlock had seemed suspicious but he seemed to have overcome his suspicions eventually and just accepted that the casual touches were merely friendly.  It seemed that Sherlock didn't register affection as such unless it was communicated verbally.  

This morning was no different.  John had the day off from the hospital and they didn’t really have any plans, he was contemplating convincing Sherlock to make breakfast with him as he climbed out of the shower and padded into the living room in his dressing gown.  He was surprised to find Sherlock was already in the living room straightening his suit jacket, days like today were usually spent in pajamas or in Sherlock's case occasionally just a sheet. “Ah.” he said with a grin at John.  “Just in time.  Get dressed, we have a case!”

John grinned back before dashing up the stairs to his room to put on a pair of jeans and a jumper.  He combed through his hair once more before hastening down the stairs.  Sherlock was all but bouncing on the balls of his feet in eager anticipation, he looked like a kid on Christmas morning.  

“Ready?” he asked with a grin.

John nodded and grabbed his coat off the peg, handing Sherlock’s coat to him over his shoulder.  Sherlock caught him up on the details of the case as they climbed into a cab, someone had managed to break into a bank without tripping any alarms, using any codes, or getting caught by any of the surveillance cameras.  The police assured him that the video had been running continuously, he had his doubts.  

“The interesting thing,” Sherlock said, with a mad grin, “Is that they didn’t steal anything.”

“They didn’t steal anything?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, “Nope.” he said popping his ‘p,’ “They left notes that told the bank exactly what they are going to steal in 48 hours; they left a sticky notes in each of the safety deposit boxes they were going to take something from with the description of what they were going to take.”

“Okay.” John said, “So why didn’t they just move everything?”

“That’s the best part!” Sherlock said, excitedly.  “The bank did.  They emptied all of the boxes and reassigned numbers and the thieves-to-be came in the next night and did the same thing.”

The cab pulled up outside the bank and Sherlock opened the door and slid out, John followed closely behind him.  When they got inside John greeted Lestrade while Sherlock set to work, investigating the sticky notes and video cameras.

“We’re a bit stumped, to be honest.” Lestrade told John, rubbing his hands over his face. “The security company says nothing like this should be able to happen.”

John’s phone rang, interrupting Lestrade’s explanation, "Sorry." John said as he pulled his mobile out and glanced at the caller ID  _Dr. Herman._ “Shit.” John muttered.  “I’m sorry, excuse me for just a moment, would you?”

After a nod from Lestrade, he went out front of the building and answered the call, “Hello?”

“Hi, John. This is Dr. Herman, I’m your mother’s oncologist.  We met a few months ago, I believe.”

“Yes.  I know who you are.”

“Right, the reason I’m calling is that your mother has spiked a fever and is in the Intensive Care Unit.  The staff are doing their best to make her comfortable, but there isn’t much more we can do.” He paused and cleared his throat, “I’m sorry, but your mother doesn’t have much longer left.  You should come as soon as you can.”

John couldn’t move, he couldn’t think, it was as if the whole world was spinning around him and he was stuck standing still.

“John?” Dr. Herman called out, “Are you still there?”

“Yeah.” John said, shaking his head to clear the fog, his chest felt too tight and he felt like he couldn’t breathe.  “Yes.  Sorry.  I’m still here.  It’s only-” he swallowed, “I thought she was doing better.  Her numbers were good just two days ago when she’d had the tests done.”

“Yes.  But things can change rapidly with cancer.” Dr. Herman said gently.

“Sure.  Right, sorry.” John took a deep breath, “Yes.  I’ll be there soon, I just need to catch a cab and I’ll be there.  Tell her I’m coming, yeah?”

“I will.”

John hung up the phone and turned around to head back into the building to let Sherlock know he was leaving.  It probably wouldn’t matter much but he didn’t want to not tell him on the off chance Sherlock would worry.  He stumbled in through the door and bumped into Greg, he was knocked off balance and Greg’s hands came up to steady him.

“Are you alright?” He asked, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Umm.” John started, looking around for Sherlock, his mind felt foggy and lost; he felt completely overwhelmed. “Do you know where Sherlock is?”

“Sure.” Greg said, nodding back toward the vaults.  “Just follow the sound of him chewing out at Anderson.” he said with a chuckle.

John nodded, he could hear Greg but he couldn’t quite process what he was saying.  He went into the vault and tried to get Sherlock’s attention.  When Sherlock didn’t respond immediately John found himself shouting a bit above the noise of the two men bickering, “Sherlock!” he called.

“What?” Sherlock snapped, spinning around to face him, his eyes blazing as though he were preparing to fend John off as well.  As though he thought John might be attacking him, too.  

John felt himself cringe, “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“What could possibly be more important than this?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to the crime scene around them.

John held up his phone, “The hospital just called-” John started.

“The hospital.” Sherlock sneered, “Doesn’t anyone else work at the hospital apart from you?  There will always be sick people, John.  There won’t always be mysteries like this.  I need you here far more than they need you there.”

John felt like he’d been smacked, he wasn’t sure why Sherlock’s words had this much effect on him.  “They’re people, Sherlock.” John said, a bit shocked by Sherlock’s cavalier attitude toward John’s patients.  And he was right in a way, John supposed, there were plenty of people who John treated who if they’d only waited a few more days and taken some over the counter cold medicine they would be fine.  But John treated a lot of people who wouldn’t be fine without a Doctor’s help.  John shook his head, “It doesn’t matter.  I don’t have time to argue about it right now.” John turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

“Fine.” Sherlock called after him.  “Go coddle the sick grownups behaving like children because they have a sore throat.”

John spun around and glared at Sherlock, “It’s my mum, Sherlock.” he said through gritted teeth.  “My mother who has cancer and whose doctor just called to tell me she is going to die.  So forgive me if I’d rather spend the last few hours of her life with her than here praising your brilliance; you complete and utter prick.”  John turned around and started to storm out once more, “Or don’t forgive me.  See if I give a flying fuck.”

He was almost to the door when Greg caught up with him, “Where do you need to go?” Greg asked.

John turned and practically growled at him, “My mother-” he started.

“No.” Greg said gently, “I heard that part.  What I meant is, let me take you where you need to go; they'll be fine here without me for five minutes.  I’ve got lights and sirens.” he said, gesturing to his car.

John nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat.  His emotions were making him spin out of control; he needed to shut them down.  He didn’t have time to fall apart.  He took a deep breath in through his nose and straightened his spine.  He gave Greg the address and he climbed into the car.  

When they were ensconced inside and Greg turned the lights and siren on before speeding away from the crime scene, John said, "Do you mind if I make a quick phone call?" 

"Whatever you need to do." Lestrade replied.

He dialed Harry’s number, “Come on.” he murmured as the phone rang.  “Pick up.”

Finally she did, “Hey, Johnny!” her voice came through cheerfully, slurring a bit and John wondered if she was a little drunk.  “Calling to chat about your new beau?  Has he decided to make things official, yet?”

“It’s mum.” John said, trying and failing to keep his emotions in check.  The other end of the line was silent.  “She’s dying, Harry.”  John pressed his thumb and his forefinger of his right hand into the corner of his eyes to stop the tears that felt dangerously close to spilling.  “Please come, Harry.” he said, his breath catching.  “Please.”

He heard Harry swallowing on the other end of the line, “No can do.” she said, but John could hear the false note in her bravado.  “We said goodbye a long time ago.  Why should I come and be there for her when she never came through for me?”

“This is your last chance, Harriet.” John said, a note of warning in his voice.  “I’ve asked you over and over again.  This is the last chance you’re going to get, come put the past to rest while you still can.  Find closure.  The next time you see our mother will be in a coffin if you don’t come right now.  If you don't want to do it for yourself, do it for me.”

There was an audible click in his ear, “Harry?” he called out, he looked down at his phone _call ended._  He clenched his phone in his fist and stared down at the ground; her stubbornness was going to cost her more than she could know.  "Fuck." he growled, feeling completely powerless; it felt like he was watching a car accident happen, he could see the impending doom but could do nothing to stop it.  

Lestrade cleared his throat and John remembered where he was and who he was with, "Sorry." John said, "It's just..." John trailed off not sure where he could even begin.

"It's fine." Greg said, "You don't have to explain yourself to me."

Within 2 minutes Greg was pulling up to the hospital entrance.  John turned to look at Greg, “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry about your mum.” he replied.

John nodded and climbed out of the car, he went into the front door and walked up to receptionist, “I’m here for Janet Watson.” he said.


	26. Chapter 26

_Sherlock_

Sherlock had solved the case in a ridiculously short amount of time, it had been surprisingly dull once he gotten there and had a chance to look at the crime scene.  It had been a complete waste of time; two disgruntled employees had been the last to leave the vaults and the building on both of those days and had left the notes before they clocked out and set the alarm, thus the alarm never had a code keyed in to turn it off and the videos never captured anything.  One of the employees had a cousin who worked for the security company and had doctored the videos of their time in the vault to make it look routine.  Had it not been for the fact that one of the employees had her nails polished before she went into the vault but unpolished in the footage from within the vault, Sherlock might not have realized it was different either.  Upon their arrest they were interviewed and both said they’d never planned to steal anything, they just wanted the bank to lose its clients’ trust and its credibility.

Dull.

The whole day had been a complete waste of time and Sherlock hadn’t heard a peep from John since he’d left that morning.  He’d picked up his phone a dozen times and thought about sending off a text to John but he wasn’t sure it would be welcomed and he wasn't really sure what to say.  John was always the first one to reach out when they had a spat, always the first one to be reasonable and smooth Sherlock’s ruffled feathers.  He supposed he couldn’t blame him for not reaching out yet, he was undoubtedly preoccupied with his mother.  Truth be told, Sherlock felt rather guilty about the whole thing; he was rather irritated with himself for not realizing that the call had been about John’s mother and not his work.  

Looking objectively at all of the facts Sherlock had at his disposal from what he knew of John, it was actually rather unlikely that John would have left the crime scene in favor of going in for an extra shift at the hospital.  In fact, John had turned down extra shifts at his work before when they had tried to call him and he was on a case with Sherlock.  Furthermore, if Sherlock had just taken a moment to look at John, to really look at him, he would have seen the obvious signs of emotional distress.  But, no, Sherlock couldn’t just be empathetic like a normal person, he had to just push and shove like the hyperbolic bull in the china shop of John’s emotional wellbeing.  

“Stupid.” he grumbled at himself as he walked around aimlessly through the streets of London, trying to figure out how one apologized for being emotionally stunted and oblivious to the emotional needs of others.  The trouble was that he really had no practical experience in this area.  He’d never really had a friend (and he had to admit John was a friend, there was no point trying to deny that any longer) and being the youngest child and infinitely more likely to throw a tantrum than either of his brothers ensured that he'd most often gotten his way at home as well.  

Of course he’d had to apologize in the past but never had their been an occurrence for which he felt the need to apologize in the very marrow of his bones.  Most often his apologies were rather hollow because he couldn’t understand the need for them in the first place; they were just what a person was meant to say and he hadn’t the faintest idea why.  Why should one apologize for speaking the truth?  

But this.  This was something else entirely.  He hadn’t been saying something truthful that no one wanted to hear; he’d said something cruel, something malicious and manipulative just to get his way.  He’d hurt John deeply because he couldn’t be arsed to care about what was going on in his life.  He’d been so focused on proving he was right, proving he was clever.

Sherlock felt completely miserable and he had no idea what to do.  He’d even tried googling how to apologize.  The results had been unsatisfying at best; he couldn’t very well buy John flowers, or take him out to dinner, and he very sincerely doubted a simple, ‘Sorry I was a jerk.’ was going to suffice no matter how deeply it was meant.  

With a sigh he flagged down a cab, there was only one person who might be able to help him straighten this out and salvage the debacle he'd made of his friendship with John.  When he got to the prison he only had to wait a few minutes before Wendell was being ushered to the window opposite him.

Wendell picked up the phone.  “Hello there.” he said with a smile, which faltered slightly at whatever he saw on Sherlock’s face.  “What’s wrong?  What’s happened?”

“I’m an idiot.” Sherlock said.

“Tell me what happened.” Wendell said encouragingly.  

So Sherlock did just that, he told Wendell exactly what had happened this morning at the crime scene.  Wendell physically winced at Sherlock's words and let out a weary sigh.  “The wasn’t even a good one." Sherlock lamented. "Maybe a two on the scale of exciting cases.”  Sherlock shook his head, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Well a good, ‘I’m sorry.’ never went amiss.” Wendell suggested.  

“It's hardly the sort of mistake that one can simply say ‘I’m sorry’ for.  I didn’t break his favourite mug, or some other trivial nonsense that people get upset about.”

“That’s true.” Wendell conceded, “But the actual words, when they’re said with conviction can be more powerful than you realize.”  He shrugged, “Were I you, I would probably try to support him however I could, just show him that you do care about what he’s going through.  Spend extra time with him, offer to go to the funeral or calling hours, make him tea.”

“We’re not doing the caring bit.” Sherlock explained.  That was the other difficulty, how did one apologize and mean it when you weren’t meant to be affectionate with one another?

“Pardon me?” Wendell said, “I must have misheard you because I thought you just told me you ‘weren’t doing the caring bit.’”

“You heard me perfectly clearly.” Sherlock retorted.

Wendell laughed, “Are you out of your mind, Sherlock?  In what world is this the ‘not caring bit?’”

“So, I shouldn’t apologize?” Sherlock asked, confused, that thought didn't bode well.  Perhaps Wendell just didn't understand what the 'caring bit' actually entailed.  “We just aren’t doing the affectionate part.” Sherlock elaborated, feeling himself blush.  He cleared his throat, trying not to feel like an adolescent talking about sex with his big brother.  “We agreed to casual sex and I think we may be friends but we’re not doing the dating part.”

Wendell tilted his head back, looking up to the ceiling as though he could see some sort of answer up there.  “John Watson should be made a saint when he dies.” Wendell shook his head, “You listen to me, Sherlock Holmes, if you want John to stick around you are going to need to make some sort of effort here.  This is going to be an incredibly difficult time for him, he doesn’t need any of this nonsense that you’re spouting about not doing the affectionate bits making what he is about to go through any harder.  I don’t care what sort of arrangements the two of you have made about affection, they are null and void after his mother dying and you being an arse about it.”

“If we do the affectionate part now, how am I meant to go back to not doing the affectionate part later?” Sherlock asked, genuinely unsure how to make that sort of boundary.  “And how am I meant to know how long we’re supposed to do the affectionate bit for?”  Sherlock swallowed as another, more troubling thought occurred to him, “I don’t know how to do the affectionate parts.”

Wendell shook his head, “Yes you do; think about it, Sherlock.  How many times have you had to stop yourself from saying something kind to him?  How many times have you had to stop yourself from kissing him or touching him because you didn’t want it to lead to sex?  How many times have you had to resist the urge to just be near him?  

“I _know_ you Sherlock, you were the most affectionate child I’ve ever met; you always wanted to be holding someone’s hand or sitting on someone’s lap.  You always wanted to be near Mycroft or me.  Do you remember Redbeard?  There’s never been a dog in this world as loved as that dog was; you’d lay there and stroke his ears while you fell asleep at night, you were constantly touching him and draping yourself across his back while you were playing.  Touch is a very natural language for you Sherlock, you just have to let yourself do it.  Stop overthinking everything.”

“What if I don’t want to stop once I’ve started?” Sherlock asked softly.

“What if you don’t?” Wendell asked.  “Why do you have to stop Sherlock?  Do you honestly think John wouldn’t want to do the _affectionate bit?_ It seems to me he already tried to initiate that part and you said no.”

“I’m...” Sherlock trailed off, at a loss for words.  He didn’t know how to explain his inadequacy to Wendell.  “I’m not good.” he said.  “I don’t know how to be kind and tactful, I’m flighty and I’m selfish, I get bored too easily, and I’m emotionally stunted.  I’m not what John wants, not really, and he’d figure it out soon enough if I was required to do the relationship part.”

“And you’re worried that if you let yourself have John and have what you both want, he’ll realize it’s not actually what he wants and leave.  You’re afraid that you will have exactly what you want and you then run the risk of losing that which you’ve hardly dared dream of having in the first place.”

Sherlock looked down at the table between the two of them.  Why was Wendell so much more perceptive than he was when it came to things like this?

“I suppose you have a choice then," Wendell continued, regardless of the fact that Sherlock hadn't confirmed his theory, "You can choose to do nothing which I fear  would be the beginning of the end for the two of you.  You can choose to try and provide affection and support now when it is needed and withdraw when it becomes less necessary, although I’m unsure as to whether there is ever a time when affection goes awry.  Or you can take a chance and give John the benefit of the doubt that his friendship and affection is enough to give the two of you something more.”

Sherlock shook his head, he couldn’t, the risk was too great.  He valued John’s companionship, his quiet confidence, the stability he had provided Sherlock’s life too much to put that at risk.

“It’s your choice of course, but in my experience,” Wendell said, “The best love is friendship.  It comes from a quiet sort of understanding of the other person, it’s sharing and forgiving.  Love settles for less than perfection and allows human weakness.”

“No one said anything about love.” Sherlock said.

“No, I don’t suppose you did, but there are many kinds of love and there is something to be said for the power it has in lives and in hearts to enact change and growth.” Wendell shrugged, “Just some food for thought.”

“I didn’t come here for some food for thought.”  Sherlock said with a groan.  “I came here so you could tell me how to fix my mistake.  It shouldn’t have to be this hard.”

Wendell shrugged, “Relationships of any sort aren’t easy.  They require a lot of sacrifice and a lot of dedication, whether you’re just friends or something more.”

“Right.” Sherlock sighed, “I should go.” he said, glancing up at the clock and noting that it was almost 5:00 and visiting hours were almost over.

“Alright.” Wendell said, “I know you’ll make the right choice, little duck, and I know John will forgive you.  He’s a good man.”

“He is.” Sherlock agreed.  “I don’t deserve his warmth and constancy.”

“Does anyone ever _deserve_ those who care about them?” Wendell asked.  “I often think that the people we are closest to have the great misfortune of seeing our worst selves.  I wonder if the world might be a better place if we all took the time to present our friends and loved ones with our best selves, if we worked to give them our love and kindness rather than all the bits that were left over.” Wendell shrugged, and waved a hand as though he were brushing a thought away.  “Listen to me rambling on and on.  Prison has given me too much time to think, it’s turned me into even more of a philosopher than I was prior to my incarceration.  Forgive me.  You should be going, little duck, you have a lot you need to accomplish and a friend who needs your support.”

Sherlock sighed, “I suppose you’re right, but I still have no idea how I’m meant to do any of this.”

“I think it will be easier than you think it’s going to be.  Just say you’re sorry and be there for him in the meantime.  It’s not rocket science.”

“No, it’s not.” Sherlock affirmed, “Rocket science is child’s play.”

Wendell laughed, “Quit stalling.  I look forward to an update and tell John I’m so sorry about his mother.”

“Yes, that’ll go well.  'Sorry I was an arse but Wendell says he is so terribly sorry for your loss.'  Maybe he should move in with you, you’re far more sensitive than I am.”

“Tell him to shoot someone else and he can.” Wendell quipped.

Sherlock cocked his head, how had he known about John shooting Adam McCoy?  No one knew about that except for him.  But of course Mycroft had figured it out, he'd sent John there in the first place.  Sherlock shook his head ruefully.  “I will never understand the relationship you and Mycroft have.” Sherlock said.  “Do the two of you talk about anything other than my life?”

“Of course.” Wendell said, “We talk about John, too.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out.  He shook his head, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  Now go on, before someone comes to escort you out.”

Sherlock left, feeling as though he still wasn’t quite sure what to do but hopeful that he had a chance at figuring it out.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter is rather sad as you've all probably gathered it was going to be. John's mom dies, as I imagine everyone would have guessed. If you have triggers related to parents dying, you can jump down to where the dotted line is and skip John's hospital visit, it picks up with John and Sherlock after that.

_John_

“I’m sorry, sir.  We don’t have any patients here with that name.”

John heart thumped wildly in his chest, had he come to the wrong hospital?  Irrationally he became terrified his mother had already passed away and that was why the receptionist couldn't find her on the patient's list.  He knew how hospital systems worked, so logically he knew this couldn’t be the case, but logic wasn’t standing up to the test so well right now.  “Watson.” he repeated, “Could you check again, please?  W-A-T-S-O-N.” he spelled out.

The girl behind the desk obliged him, “I’m sorry, sir.  There’s no one here by that name.”

John rubbed his forehead and pulled out his mobile, he was going to have to call Dale and see where he and his mother were.  Dale.  “Oh, God.” John said.  “I’m so sorry, Janet Smithe.  Smithe is her last name now, not Watson.  That’s Smithe with an e.”  John felt himself blush, Dale and his mother had been married for almost six years now, how was her last name not cemented into his mind more firmly?

“It’s alright.” the woman said kindly.  “This is a very stressful time, I’m sure.  Mrs. Smithe is in room 324.”

John had meant to say thank you, he really had, he was nothing if not polite; but somehow the words didn’t quite manage to make it past his lips and his mind didn’t have the propensity to remind him as he started off down the hall.  There were too many thoughts inside John’s mind right now, they were all swirling about and vying for his attention as he made his way to his mother’s room.  He was upset about his mother’s condition but he was angry too; angry at Harry, angry at Sherlock, angry at the injustice of life in general.  

His mother was finally getting to be happy.  She’d finally gotten to the part of her life that she had been able to live for herself.  When John had turned 18, she’d finally divorced his father and had started a new life for herself.  She’d met Dale and they’d fallen in love, the sort of love you could see with the naked eye; full of warm, open affection and devotion for the other person.  The sort of love she’d never had with John’s father.  She and Dale had been married less than a year after meeting one another. 

She’d gotten to spend endless time out in her garden, she’d joined a book club, and she’d gotten a job at a shop that sold antiques.  She and Dale travelled and she got to try foods she’d always dreamt of trying and see places she’d always dreamt of seeing.  She was finally getting to be happy and comfortable in her own skin and John had been so glad for her.

Inoperable brain tumor.  John would never forget the phone call when his mother had told him.  He'd always thought the term _broken heart_ was purely hyperbolic, he hadn't realized that sadness could feel like physical pain.  He hadn't known that his chest could ache with unshed tears, that grief could make his chest constricted and make it impossible to breathe.  He'd never understood that panic could freeze your mind entirely and rob you all of coherency.  Truth be told, he’d been stunned and in denial about it for a long time.  He’d taken her to clinic after clinic and doctor after doctor to try to find someone who would operate on her.  He’d asked every doctor he knew for recommendations and for ideas.  He spent six months researching, six months taking her scans to different cancer treatment centers, he’d travelled outside of the country to find the best doctors and hospitals with the highest success rates.

No one could do anything, he couldn’t count the number of apologies he’d received, in his mind he could see the faces of seasoned doctors who took one look at the scan and shook their heads.  He could see the sadness in their eyes as they apologized and wished him the best; they usually handed him information packets about counseling and grief before ushering him out the door.

These thing alone would not have been enough to make him give up; he could be stubborn to the point of stupidity at times.  John wasn’t one to take the easy road, he wasn’t one to quit something he’d started.  It was something his mother had taught him; she’d never let him quit anything in his life, especially when it was hard.  He'd had no intention of starting then.   

But she’d sat him down one day when he’d brought over a file about some herbal remedy that had been tested and had shown some promise and she’d gently but quite firmly said, “That’s enough.”  She'd elaborated that her recent scans had shown that the cancer had already started metastasizing to her other organs and it was too late.  John had just stared uncomprehendingly at her and before he knew what hit him, he’d started to cry, just like he had when he was a child and he saw a hurt he couldn’t fix.  The sheer powerlessness he’d felt in that moment had completely overwhelmed him.

She’d wrapped her arms around him and stroked his hair, she didn’t say a word, didn’t offer any comfort or wisdom; probably because she knew there was nothing she could have said to make it better.  When he’d finally gotten himself together, she’d pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Let's just enjoy the last bit of my life, yes?”  He hadn’t known how to respond, so he’d simply nodded and stopped looking for answers.  

And now here they were, seven months later, and she was dying.

He wasn’t ready for this.  There wasn't anything logical about the feeling he had that said time would freeze if he didn't enter her room; the lack of logic didn't change the fact that he stood outside of her room, completely unable to move.  John was afraid, there was no other word for it.  His heart was thundering in his ears, his palms were sweating, his mouth was dry; he didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know what to do.  He felt lost and alone and completely powerless.  The world was spinning past him as he stood here, rooted to the spot, and there was nothing he could do to stop it or even slow it down.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, he took a steadying breath in through his nose and exhaled it slowly.  He wasn't ready for this, but he didn't have any choice.  Time wasn’t going to stop moving because he wanted it to and he wasn’t a coward.  Squaring his shoulders, John stepped into his mother’s room.

Dale was sitting in the chair next to the hospital bed, his greying head resting on his hand as he watched John’s mother sleep.  She was hooked up to machines to monitor her vitals and an IV provided her with fluids and some pain medication.  

She’d always looked young for her age, she’d always looked healthy, her skin had a natural sort of tan to it in much the same way John’s did. She’d looked like the type of person one drew when portraying fairies, sprightly with blond curls and freckles, big blue eyes and delicate cheekbones.  But the cancer had robbed her of her agelessness.  John couldn’t help but think she looked small and frail laying in the hospital bed, her skin was pale and looked paper thin, her veins stood out in a shocking contrast, her cheeks were sallow, and her hair, now more grey than blond, looked dull and thin.  

John approached the bed and carefully laid a hand on Dale’s shoulder.  “Hi, Dale.”  he said softly.

“John.” he said, covering John’s hand with his own and turning tear filled eyes on him.  “Thank you for coming so quickly.  She's just taking a rest but she hasn’t been able to sleep for very long stretches lately; I’m sure she’ll be awake soon enough.”

John pulled a chair over so he could sit next to him, “How are you?” John asked softly, taking his mind off his own grief and anger and refocusing on someone else gave him purpose and made this feel easier.

Dale swallowed audibly, “I’ve been better to be honest.  I just-” his voice broke and he looked down at his lap, “I just don’t know what I’ll do without her.”

John felt tears welling up in his own eyes and he couldn’t take a deep enough breath as he tried to plough through the wave of sadness that was threatening to overtake him.  He turned his head away to compose himself but reached out and laid his hand on Dale’s shoulder once more.  He didn’t have any words to say and couldn’t have forced them out of his throat even if he could have found them, he hoped his presence would help in some small measure.

“So many sad faces in one room.” John looked up, startled at hearing his mother’s voice.  “Be careful you two, the flattery will go straight to my head.”

John let out a wet chuckle as Dale leaned over and pressed a kiss to her temple, “I’ll just give you two a moment, shall I?  I’ll go fetch a cup of coffee for John and me, yes?”

“Alright, love.  Thank you.” she said, smiling a gentle sort of smile, her eyes full of affection.  It was the sort of smile that John hadn’t ever seen her have until she’d met Dale; one look at that smile and John had approved of Dale wholeheartedly.  Now that smile simply made John’s heart ache.  

She turned her attention to John a moment later and reached out her hand to him, “Hello, darling.” she said, “Don’t look so sad.”

“But I am sad.” John said, as a tear finally spilled from his eyes and slid down his cheek.  

She reached out and wiped it away with her thumb, just as she had done so many times when he was young.  “Don’t think about it.  Everything’s going to be alright.  Tell me about you.” she prompted.  “Dale and I have been reading your blog about your adventures with Sherlock faithfully, my heavens the trouble you two get up to.  I’m sorry I never got the chance to meet him, he seems like quite the character.  Definitely one to keep you on your toes, Johnny.”

John nodded, “That he is.  I left him at a crime scene a little bit ago, he was being quite an arse at the time.”

“Language, young man.” she tsked.  “You shouldn’t have done that, he gets into all sorts of mischief even with you there, I can’t imagine how much worse it must be when you aren’t.”

John chuckled, “You don’t know the half of it.  He’s this storm of energy and intelligence and passion but he never seems to know quite what to do with it.  It seems like he always seconds away from disaster but most of the time he manages to stop himself before he crosses the line.” he shook his head, “Not today, he definitely went too far today.”

“Is it because of what he did or is it because of what’s happening today?” she asked gently.  "You can be a touch oversensitive, darling."

"I'm not oversensitive." he replied, affronted.  His mother gave him a knowing look.  Begrudgingly he admitted, "Probably both.  But it’s definitely what he did, too.  He can be so insensitive, so callous and unfeeling; and sometimes I feel like I’m wasting my time.  I feel like I’m such a fool, believing that he cares about me or could maybe someday learn to when in reality it seems like he doesn’t know how and has no interest in learning.”  John shook his head, this wasn't the type of conversation to have with one's mother on her deathbed; surely he could think of something profound to say, something good.  Wasn't that what people were meant to do?  “Listen to me, nattering on and on at you about boy problems like a schoolgirl.”

His mother laughed and then started to cough, when she’d stopped John helped her take a sip of water, “Oh, don’t make me laugh, darling, it always makes me cough these days.”  She sighed, “You’ve always talked about your friends and relationships with me, why should this one be any different?”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”  John said softly, his heart aching.

“Yes it does.  Because he matters to you.” she smiled at him, “Would you like a dying woman’s advice?”

John felt his eyes well up with tears once more and cleared his throat to push them back, he nodded jerkily, “Always.”

“Forgive him.”

“You don’t even know what he did.” John said.

“It doesn’t matter.  He makes you happy, Johnny, anyone with eyes can see that.  I remember when you came to visit me after you’d gone and caught the estate agent who moonlighted as a serial killer.  Your eyes were lit up and you were _excited_ about something.  He broke you out of your mold of just going to work and going home; he’s made your life exciting and he’s made you happy.  And as your mother, even if I haven’t always done a good job of making you happy, I hope you’ll believe me when I say it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted for you.”

“Of course I believe you.” John said shaking his head, “You've always made me happy.  You were always there, always encouraged me, always wanted me to work hard and be the best I could be.”

She continued, staring off into the distance as though she hadn't heard him. “I know the childhood you and Harriet had growing up wasn’t always pleasant and there wasn’t always much cause for happiness, I know it was difficult.”

“Don’t, mum.” John said.  “It’s in the past.  We don’t need to talk about it.”

“Yes, we do.” she said firmly, turning to look him in the eyes.  “Because I need to tell you I’m sorry.  I need you to forgive me.  I did the best I knew how to do at the time and I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.”

“Stop this.” John begged; he couldn’t fathom holding her choices against her, she had always done what she’d thought was best for them.  He’d come to terms with all of the hurt and anger a long time ago and done his best to move on.  “Of course I forgive you.  You were and are a wonderful mother.  I wouldn’t trade you for the world.  I love you.”

“I love you, too.” she said with a soft smile before she began coughing again.  John helped her take a few sips of water, and when she leaned back against the bed once more John couldn’t help but think again about how frail she looked.  "Would you pass me my hand cream, darling?  My skin gets as dry as a bone in these hospitals."

John reached into the drawer in the small stand by her bed and pulled out the jar of lotion, he unscrewed the top and took his mother's hands in his, gently rubbing the lotion in.  The scent brought him back to his childhood, the smell of peppermint hand cream had always signaled that it was a safe night.  His mother being able to do her evening beauty rituals meant that everything was going smoothly; it meant they were pretending to be a normal family, there would be no yelling or violence.  On those nights she brushed her hair, washed her makeup off, and put on her hand cream before she came to tuck him in and read to him.  He'd always cherished those moments as a child, in those moments he'd felt warm and loved; to this day the smell of peppermint made him feel safe.

Dale came back in a moment later, “I tried Harriet again.” he said as he made his way over to the other side of the bed, sitting down on the bed and taking her hand in his.  “She said John just tried her and not to waste my breath.”

His mother turned to look at John once more, “Such a sweet boy.” she murmured, “Thank you.  Please just tell her that I love her for me?  And tell her I understand.”

“No.” John said shaking his head as the anger filled his veins again.  “I won’t tell her you understand her stubbornness and her refusal to come and see you when she won’t have another chance.”

Another coughing fit wracked her body, “John.” she said imploringly when she’d finally stopped coughing.  “Please.  I _do_ understand why she didn’t come; I never expected her to.  I didn’t even deserve you coming.”  John started to protest but she held up a hand, “Let me finish.  I haven’t got much longer.” he nodded, how could he not?  “When she regrets not coming, and she will because she has a beautiful heart even if she’s done everything in her power to put armour around it, tell her I forgive her.  Tell her I don’t blame her.  Tell her I love her.”

John swallowed and nodded. “I will but only because I love you and not because I think she deserves it.” John replied.

“I just want the two of you to be happy.” she said softly.  “In life I didn’t do enough to ensure both of your happinesses, I won’t be the cause of her hurt and unhappiness in death, too.”  She leaned her head back against the bed and closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, which John suspected was an attempt to mask some of pain she was feeling.

“Maybe you should rest for a bit.” Dale said softly.

She shook her head, “It’s over, love.  There won’t be another chance for me to say these things.  Dr. Herman was very encouraging, but I can feel it.”

She turned and looked back at John, “One more thing, John.  Happiness isn’t always easy, but when you find someone who you love and who makes you happy, tell them.  Time is precious and more fleeting than you can imagine at your age.  Don’t waste your life being safe if it means you aren’t happy.”

John felt his eyes fill up tears once more and he nodded.  His mother turned and looked at Dale; the man who she’d started a new life with, who had loved her for herself.  John watched through a lens of unshed tears as she squeezed his hand in hers, “Thank you for being my second chance at happiness.” she said softly.  “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” he whispered, and John could hear the tears in his voice.  “Don’t leave me, Janet.  Not yet.  I’m not ready.”

John looked away, feeling like he should give them a moment alone but being too afraid to leave her side.

“We’ll never be ready, love.” she replied.  “But I’m tired now.  I’ve said all I needed to say, I’ve done all I needed to do.  You’ve made my life complete.  And my children,” she said reaching over and taking John’s hand, “Made my life feel like it wasn’t a waste.  Even if the only good thing I ever did was bring the two of you into this world, I can die knowing it is a better place because the two of you exist in it.”

John shook his head, but couldn’t get out any words; they stuck in his throat as he fought off the tears, as he struggled through the fog of pain in his mind.  “I love you.” she said, looking Dale in the eyes, before turning her head to look at John, “And I love you.”

With those words she let out a soft sigh and her eyes lost their focus and became glassy.  The heart monitor let out a continuous wailing sound, and the nurse came in a moment later.  She maneuvered around John and flipped the switch on the machine to turn the sound off before reaching over and checking for a pulse.

“No.” Dale murmured, his voice thick with tears and John could hear his ragged breathing as he fought off his own.  

John cleared his throat and inhaled sharply through his nose; he wasn’t going to cry.  He wasn’t going to lose himself in his grief here in this public place with strangers all around him who knew nothing of his pain, knew nothing of the way his heart had shattered and felt like it wasn’t quite beating right anymore.

Dale had no such compunction.  He moved to the bed and wrapped his arms around her prone form, letting sobs wrack his body as he wept.  

John looked at his mother for a moment longer but his mind rebelled against it.  It felt surreal, it felt like being awoken suddenly from a dream when it was impossible to differentiate between what is reality and what was just the dream.  The overwhelming need to escape clawed at his consciousness; he needed to be somewhere else.  He couldn’t breathe here, he was drowning and had no idea which way was up.

He left the room, leaning heavily against the wall and taking in great gasps of air.  He didn’t know how long he stood there, focusing on breathing in and out, keeping his mind focused on the involuntary action of his lungs sucking in air and pushing it out.  He didn’t allow himself any other thoughts, didn’t make room for any other emotions.  

Eventually, Dale came out of the room, “God, I need a cigarette.” he murmured.  “I’d given them up before I met her.” he shook his head and glanced over at John.  “Are you ready for the staff to take her to the morgue?” he asked.

John looked at him, and even though he knew that was how this worked, the thought took his breath away and terrified him.  He couldn’t imagine his mother being sent down to the morgue, being put in one of those freezers until the undertakers came.  The irrational thought came that she would get cold.  He blew the breath he’d unconsciously been holding out in a gust.

“I’m sorry.” Dale said, clearly reading the horror on John’s face.  “God, that was insensitive.  I’m just...” he trailed off and shook his head, “I’m in shock I guess.  And the only thing I know how to do when I start to feel emotional or panicked is act.”

John swallowed past the lump in his throat, “I’m usually the same way and I know that’s the next step, I work in a hospital, but it just shouldn’t be real.  I just can’t believe this is happening.” he shook his head.  He needed to say something, needed to tell Dale in some way that he was grateful for his presence in his mother’s life. “Thank you for being there or her.  If anyone deserved a second chance it was her.”

“She was an amazing woman.  As much a second chance for me as I was for her.” he cleared his throat.  “Janet and I already made the plans for her funeral.  We’ll just need to pick the date.  She didn’t want it to be anything exorbitant but the plans were nice, she didn’t want to be a burden after she passed.”

John nodded and swallowed, “Whatever you think is best.  She would have told you what she wanted, please let me know how I can help.”

“Can I call you later?” he asked.  “Maybe tomorrow?” he looked down at his feet.  “I just,” his voice cracked and he covered his face with his hands for a moment before composing himself and looking back up at John, “I just need a little time.”

“Sure.” John said, reaching out and patting him on the shoulder.  “Can I just have one more minute with her and I’ll be out of your hair?”  He felt the odd compulsion to go in and look at her once more, say one more goodbye.  Wasn't that what people were meant to do?  Could seeing her body lying there somehow feel more like closure?  

“Of course.  Whatever you need.  And John?” he said as John started to move back toward the room for the last time, “I know she said it in there but she really did love you.  She thought you were the sun and the moon and everything in between.  You thanked me for giving her a second chance but you should know, you were the reason she felt like she deserved one in the first place.”

John nodded, he found himself at a loss for words once more and wondered vaguely when he would stop struggling to find words about his mother.  He went into the room and stared at his mother’s frame on the bed.  Without the life that had animated her she looked so small, she looked nothing like herself.  “I hope you found peace.” he said softly.  He didn’t know why he’d come back in; this didn't feel like closure, it did nothing patch the gaping wound in his heart.

When he left the room, Dale was nowhere in sight and John found himself profoundly grateful that he didn’t have to talk to him again.  He left the hospital with the distinct impression that he was fleeing and leaving everything for Dale to fix but finding himself oddly unable to feel badly about it.  

He took a cab back to the flat and stared unseeingly out the window as the city passed him by.  He paid the cabbie and went inside the flat.  He would never know what it was that had triggered it, but the moment he walked through the door the crippling despair and loss he felt completely overwhelmed him.  John was swept up in the torrents of his grief, completely crushed by how much he was feeling.

He suddenly felt the violent urge to be sick, taking the stairs two at a time into the flat he made a dash for the bathroom.  He hardly made it to the toilet before he was throwing up.  He vomited the entire contents of his stomach but couldn’t seem to stop dry heaving as he shuddered and his body surrendered to the need to cry.  His entire being ached at the loss of this woman who had cheered him on ceaselessly, who had always loved him and had always told him so.  He couldn’t believe he would never have another conversation with his mother, never hear her voice or see her smile, never taste another of her pies.

Shakily, he pulled himself together, he couldn’t just sit in the bathroom and cry for the rest of the day.  He washed the tears off his face and brushed his teeth, steadfastly avoiding his reflection in the mirror.  He wearily climbed the stairs to his bedroom, glad to find that Sherlock wasn’t back in the flat yet either.  He wasn’t ready to face him, wasn’t ready to have to talk to him.  He didn’t want to talk to anyone, he just needed to be left alone for a little while.  John pulled on the most comfortable pajamas he owned, crawled into bed, and cried himself to sleep.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

It was dark when John woke up again and he wasn’t sure what had pulled him from his slumber in the first place.  His entire body ached from crying, and he had a pounding headache.  He looked over toward the door and saw a shape standing in the doorway.  John groaned as the weight of his day crushed him once more.  

This was so typical of Sherlock, he’d undoubtedly solved the case and was probably randy as a bunny.  Furthermore, he probably wasn’t thinking past the needs of his body and his mind to have it even occur to him that John was not in a good place for this kind of nonsense right now. “I’m sure you solved the case brilliantly, Sherlock, but I’m really not in the mood.” John grumbled through his pillow.

Sherlock huffed and came stomping into the room, “Budge over.” he said, pushing inelegantly at John’s side.

John flopped over on his back and glared up at him, defiantly sprawling himself across as much of the bed as he could manage.  His mother’s words about forgiveness echoed in his mind but he wasn’t feeling very charitable at the moment.  He just wanted to be left alone to grieve, he wanted to be allowed to be sad and to cry and mourn.  “What part of ‘I’m not in the mood’ did you fail to understand?” John growled

“I’m not here to have sex with you, you idiot.” Sherlock said as he climbed into the tiny corner of the bed remaining and molded himself to John’s side, awkwardly wrapping his arms around him and holding him stiffly.

They laid there in silence for a moment, neither budging, neither willing to give the other an inch.  John felt a bubble of inappropriate laughter as he rolled over in Sherlock’s arms so he could look at him fully, comprehension dawning, “Did you come here just to give me a cuddle?” he asked, feeling a tendril of light tentatively sneak into the darkness that surrounded him like a veil.

Sherlock huffed again and rolled his eyes, “I told Wendell it was a stupid idea.  Surely, after your mother passed away you wouldn’t want to see someone who had been so ignorant in the face of your trouble.  I’ll just go.”  He said as he pulled away from John and moved to stand up.

“Wait a minute.” John said grabbing Sherlock’s arm.  “Get back here, you lanky git.” John pulled Sherlock in closer again and breathed in the smell of his detergent and body wash, feeling oddly calmed by it.  The emotions that had been stirring in his chest, the sadness, the anger, the hurt, everything that he couldn’t name felt a little less oppressive.  It didn’t disappear, not by a long shot, but somehow it hurt less.  He maneuvered them until Sherlock was lying on his back and John could rest his cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder with his nose pressed against Sherlock’s neck.  “Thank you.” he said softly.  Feeling tears prick the back of his eyes once more, a bit surprised that his body was willing to cry when Sherlock was near him.

Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him more tightly, he felt Sherlock swallow, “John, about what I said earlier, I owe you an apology.  I’m sorry I didn’t realize the call was about your mother, I should have known.  My words and attitude were inexcusable and I realize that an apology merely using words is inadequate.  I confess, I don’t quite know how to apologize for something of this magnitude.  And furthermore, you should know I don’t think your work is stupid.” Sherlock added.  “I know you take care of people who have bigger problems than a runny nose.  I was one of them.”

John was silent for a moment, this was far more of an apology than he’d ever expected.  “I’m sorry I called you a prick.” John offered,  “And I’m sorry I yelled at you at the crime scene in front of the people you work with and are trying to cultivate professional relationships with.”

Sherlock snorted, “It was well deserved, I fear.  Besides, I don’t really give a damn about what any of those people think.  I did solve the case brilliantly, however.”

“I’m not surprised.”

They were quiet for a moment and Sherlock started squirming, “Am I doing this right?” he asked.  “I realize it probably not a common question but I just don’t know how to help you and I’ve never lost a parent, and I struggle sometimes to sympathize with experiences that I can’t relate to, and-”

John leaned up and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, silencing the flow of words.  “You’re doing it right.” John whispered.  

Sherlock stared at him and nodded once.  John snuggled back into Sherlock’s arms, toying idly with the button nearest him on Sherlock’s shirt as he tried to let his mind wander away from his mother, tried to find something suitable to distract himself.  But the longer he stayed in Sherlock’s arms, the more he felt his emotions come creeping in on him; not the way they had before, not drowning him in a tidal wave of tsunami-esque proportions but lapping at him the way waves on a lake hit the shore.  Before long tears were leaking from his eyes and trailing down his face.

“I’m making it worse, aren’t I?” Sherlock asked, sounding incredibly unsure of himself.  “I really can go, you don’t have to let me stay.”

“I want you here, you git.” John grumbled.  “My mum just died.  Yes I’m going to be sad and probably cry a little bit, but I want you here.”

“What am I meant to do?” Sherlock asked softly his insecurity speaking louder than his words.  

“You’re not meant to do anything.” John said.  “I just need to be quiet, I just need to process, and I just need to be sad.”  John swallowed past the lump in his throat, “I thought I wanted to be alone, but it’s better to be alone with you, somehow it hurts less.”  It was the closest John had come to admitting the feelings he harbored for Sherlock since Sherlock’s declaration that emotions weren’t allowed.  “Unless you don’t want to be here.” John said softly, unable to look at Sherlock's face. “Then you can go.  I won’t hold it against you, grief is ugly sometimes.”  

He was half afraid that Sherlock was going to climb out of bed, tell him this caring lark wasn’t for him and leave.  But Sherlock surprised him, after a heartbeat he relaxed and drew John impossibly nearer as he turned his head to press a kiss to John’s forehead, “I want to be here, too.” John felt him swallow.  “But I’m not good at this.” he said softly, “You’ll have to tell me if I do it wrong.”

“You won’t.” John replied equally softly, he wasn’t sure how he knew that was true, but he did.  He realized somewhere along the way he’d already given Sherlock his stupid heart, and somehow he trusted him not to break it.  John yawned, unwilling and unable to think about that anymore.  He snuggled down so he could tuck his head under Sherlock’s chin and fell asleep once more.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely, sweet readers, 
> 
> I'm so so sorry for the abhorrent delay between the last chapter and this one. My computer died last week and took the next two chapters with it to its grave. Unfortunately there didn't seem to be any way to recover them (or the other works that had been stored in a file on my computer) even after talking to a lovely gent at the Mac store. There will be cloud storage from now on for this girl. At any rate, I am so terribly sorry for the delay and I hope you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> P.S. Most of this chapter was written originally on my phone, please forgive any typos. Comments and concrit are, as always, most welcomed and appreciated.

_Sherlock_

Sherlock found himself ridiculously, disgustingly happy for the entirety of the week following the death of John’s mother.  And perhaps, he reflected, that was more than a bit not good.  John had had an exceedingly difficult week.  He’d been stressed with trying to help Dale get all of the arrangements done and exhausted by continuing to work the shifts he’d been scheduled at the hospital (he’d justified it to Sherlock by telling him it helped him to keep his mind busy).  He’d been angry with Harry both for her lack of appearance and for her apparent nonchalance for their mother’s death in general (even though he studiously avoided vocalizing his irritation).  And, to put it simply, he’d been mourning. 

Watching John mourn, being allowed to bear witness to his grief felt like such an immense privilege.  Sherlock was fascinated by the face John put on for the rest of the world; he watched John leave the flat and go to work and make funeral arrangements and even come to one crime scene.  He seemed completely normal for all intents and purposes.  Perhaps he seemed a bit more withdrawn than usual but it wasn’t even an inkling of the pain Sherlock knew he was feeling.  It was the British “stiff upper lip,” Sherlock realized, but he’d never really seen it in practice, never really seen what the other side of the sadness looked like.

And he knew there was something a bit not good, a bit wrong with the way he felt about being privy to John’s true feelings. He felt special, like he mattered in some way because John had chosen to let him see the pain which seemed to be fairly constant and the tears that snuck up every so often.  John allowed him to come close, allowed him to share a bit in the sadness. 

With the sadness came a surprising amount of affection.  Sherlock had been incredibly unsure of himself at first; what was he meant to say to John?  What was he meant to do?  Grief was a terrifying and the research Sherlock had done into human grief showed that people were unpredictable at best in their pain.  People often got angry and Sherlock didn't know how he was meant to deal with anger from John for any extended amount of time; John always calmed down and they were able to move on because John was the reasonable one.  If John had been angry Sherlock wasn't sure he would have known what to do and how to interact with him.  Alternately, some people shut down completely when a tragedy occurred, they went into their own little reality where they couldn't see the world around them and couldn't process everything.  How was Sherlock meant to reach John if he was lost in his own mind?  In some cases, people wanted to verbally process their grief; they wanted to talk about their loss and have someone listen and say the right things to them.  Sherlock could hardly say the right things when he wasn't expected to; he hardly had the ability to form words which didn't aggravate people in the best of incidences.  How was he meant to find the right words when John had suffered the sort of traumatic loss he had?

But John had surprised him, as he continually seemed to do.  From what Sherlock could gather, John didn't want to rant, he didn't want to retreat to a place Sherlock could never follow, he didn't want to talk about his sadness.  He just wanted to be quiet.  He wanted to be close to Sherlock without the expectation of anything more.  He seemed to crave affection and displayed the desire to give it to Sherlock whenever they were in the flat together.  Sherlock found himself soaking up John’s affection and reciprocating without a thought.  Sherlock had tentatively followed John up to bed after the first night when John had come home from the undertakers and John had welcomed him into bed with open arms and without a word.  They sat together while they ate breakfast and dinner, John would pull Sherlock over onto the couch at night before bed while they watched telly and let Sherlock lay his head on his lap and stroke his hair. 

Wendell had been absolutely correct in his assessment that Sherlock would have no trouble offering affection without a thought of sex.  They hadn’t had intercourse at all since John’s mother had passed away but somehow Sherlock thought the closeness they were sharing now was better than what they had been sharing before.  He found himself stupidly happy, even when he knew this was a sad, terrible time for John.

This morning was no exception, he’d woken before John and had spent the past few minutes simply looking at him; cataloguing the color of his eyelashes, the way his skin seemed incandescent in the early morning light peeking in through their curtains, the way his hair stuck out at odd angles.  As he laid here he couldn’t stop the small smile that tipped up the corner of his lips. 

He knew John would be awake soon and the day would have to start, this was not a feat Sherlock was looking forward to tackling.  Today was not going to be easy, the funeral was today. 

Sherlock had yet to find a way to offer to accompany John to the funeral, he wasn’t quite sure how to word it.  But as he searched his thoughts on the matter he found that he truly did want to go with John today.  It was a bit of a novel concept for him, he could never have imagined wanting to go to an event where he wouldn’t know most of the people in attendance, emotions would be high, and he would have to be on his very best behaviour not to offend people.  But he wanted to do this for John.  John had told him on the night his mother died that Sherlock made him feel better and on this day, of all days (particularly after Sherlock had been so abysmally cruel when John had been called to his mother’s side) he was willing to go to any length to help John feel better.

“Morning.” John said, his gravelly voice pulling Sherlock from his thoughts.  His nose scrunched up adorably as he steadfastly refused to open his eyes.  Sherlock wondered vaguely how John knew he was awake already, belatedly fearing he'd woken him with the weight of his gaze.

“Hi.” Sherlock said softly, he could hear the warmth in his own voice and watched as John lips tipped up into a grin in response to the sound. 

“What time is it?” John murmured.

“Ummm.” Sherlock reached across John’s chest and hit the wake button on his phone, “Just past six.”

“S’early.” John grumbled, pulling Sherlock closer to him and shifting a bit to get more comfortable. “Why are you awake already?” he asked as he stroked his hand up and down Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock shrugged and ran his forefinger down John’s nose before lightly tracing his lips in lieu of an answer. “I’ve been thinking...” Sherlock started before trailing off, still unsure just how to bring up going to the funeral with John.

John opened one eye just a crack to look at Sherlock, “Well that, in and of itself, is nothing out of the usual.  Your hesitancy on the other hand has me a bit concerned.” he mumbled against Sherlock’s finger, but otherwise made no move to push it away.

Sherlock huffed a laugh and continued tracing John’s lips, gathering his wits before he began.  He appreciated the fact that John was willing to wait patiently while Sherlock composed himself.  “I don’t want to overstep and I would completely understand if you said no and if you were repulsed by the mere idea.  And I don’t want to make you feel pressured in any way-” 

“For goodness sake, Sherlock.” John said, reaching up to take Sherlock’s hand away from his mouth, wrapping Sherlock’s long fingers in his own and giving them a light squeeze, holding their joined hands over his heart. “Whatever it is, just say it. You’re making me nervous.”

“D’youwantmet’cometot’funeralwithyou?” Sherlock blurted out so quickly that he was sure John hadn’t understood a word.

“I’m sorry?” John said his brow furrowing a bit, “One more time, only a bit slower, I don’t think my ears are awake yet.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and blew it out impatiently, “Honestly John, you know I hate repeating myself.”

John let out a chuckle, “Then don’t speak so bloody fast.”

“Would you like me to come to the funeral with you?” Sherlock said with exaggerated slowness which belied the ridiculous nervousness he felt churning in the pit of his stomach.

John opened both eyes and stared at Sherlock for a long moment.  “I would never ask you to do that.” he said softly.

“You didn’t ask me, I offered.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.  When John didn’t respond immediately, he hurried on to add, “If you don’t want me to come just say so, I won’t be offended.  I merely thought-”

“Hush.” John said, giving Sherlock’s fingers a gentle squeeze, “It would mean a lot to me if you came.”

“It’s settled then.” Sherlock said with a nod.

John reached up and stroked his fingers along Sherlock’s cheek, “Thank you.”

“Well don’t thank me yet. I might do something terrible like accidentally deduce that a brother and sister have a different father and scandalize everyone in attendance.”

John laughed, “Might do us some good to have the funeral spiced up a bit.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You don’t mean that.”

“No, I don’t suppose I do. But I-” John broke off and cleared his throat, looking away from Sherlock and staring into the corner of the room.  “I am very appreciative of all you have done for me this week.  I know I haven't been myself and you've been very understanding.  I should be back to normal soon.”

Sherlock shrugged, “It hasn’t been anything terribly difficult.”

“Maybe not, but it’s made all the difference for me.” John replied firmly still avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock knew talking about things like this was hard for John, admitting weakness and fragility was not something that came naturally to him.  It was, Sherlock suspected, the reason John had said so little about his grief.  It was one thing if the two of them sat together or if John could simply be affectionate and have the comfort of human contact.  But it was another thing all together when he was forced to admit that he'd needed something.  It had been an interesting dichotomy to watch unfold, truthfully, John excelled in his pursuit to help other people but was profoundly terrible at asking for or even accepting help and sympathy When it came to himself. 

Sherlock reached down and tipped up John's chin until they were looking into one another's eyes. “It was no trouble.” Sherlock said softly. “It has been my honor to be here with you.”  They stared at each other for a moment longer and Sherlock felt a warmth blossoming in his chest the longer he looked at him.  He leaned down and brushed his lips over John’s, watching as his eyes fluttered shut at the contact.

“Right.” Sherlock said when he pulled away a moment later, banishing the aura the difficulty of the last conversation had left lingering in the space between them with a word.  “We should start getting ready.  You’ll need to be at the church by 9:30, yes?”

John groaned and shook his head, covering his face with his hands. “I don’t want to leave this bed.  Let’s just stay here.  I don’t want to face today.”

“Come on.” Sherlock cajoled, “You go take the first shower and I’ll make us breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” John asked looking out at Sherlock with one eye through the gaps of his fingers.

“Yes.  Proper breakfast.  Not just toast and tea.”

“French toast?” he asked hopefully.

Sherlock laughed, he’d made it for John one morning when he was bored out of his mind and John hadn’t stopped hounding him to make it again since. “If that’s what you want.”

“Sausage?”

Sherlock hummed, “If we have it.”

“Fresh squeezed orange juice?” he asked with a small smirk.

“Let’s not get too carried away.” 

John giggled, “Thank you.”

“Coffee or tea this morning?”

“Tea. I don’t need to be any more jittery.”

Sherlock cocked his head, “Are you sure? Research shows that when you are sad, the hormones flooding your mind and body and affecting the different regions of your brain can make you sluggish and tired. Coffee might help you function better.”

John laughed, “No, definitely tea. My brain may be running slower but I think I’m allowed on a day like today.”

“Of course.” Sherlock said. “I wasn’t trying to imply that you weren’t allowed to be sad or slower-”

John stretched up and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, “I know.” he murmured before slipping his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and pressing their lips together more firmly.

Sherlock stroked his fingers along John’s cheeks for a moment, cradling his face in his long fingers.  John sighed contentedly when Sherlock broke the contact.

“Do we have to go downstairs? Do I have to do today?”

“I fear we do.” Sherlock replied, crawling out of bed ignoring John’s groans of protest before tugging the covers off him, “Come on.  Breakfast awaits.” 

With much groaning and complaining John got out of bed and followed Sherlock down the stairs, taking a detour to the bathroom when Sherlock went to the kitchen.  He made breakfast; french toast, sausage, and tea and when John came out they ate in relative quiet.  John seemed to be a thousand miles away as he chewed on his sausage and Sherlock took the time to watch him.  He wondered what he was thinking about, if he was remembering his mother, or thinking about what he had to do once he got to the church, or if he was thinking about something else entirely.

“I wonder if Harry will come today.” John murmured without inflection, his face devoid of any emotion.

Sherlock knew very well that this was not a matter which John took lightly, he hadn’t said anything about Harry but Sherlock had made the mistake of bringing her up the day after John’s mother had passed in an effort to be considerate.  He’d asked if Harry had come, remembering the night he’d met Clara and learned there was something dark in the Watson’s past that they didn’t talk about and had made Harry resentful of their parents.  Sherlock had never quite gotten up the courage to ask what it was; he’d wondered if maybe their parents hadn’t taken Harry being gay well, or maybe John’s mother wasn’t Harry’s biological mother and she resented her for that, maybe Harry was an atheist and her mother (a devout Catholic based on the observations Sherlock had made about John’s upbringing) had disagreed.  Or maybe it was something else entirely. But the way John’s face had darkened at the mere mention of Harry was enough to push Sherlock away from his questions without a satisfactory answer.  He hoped that someday he would get an answer, perhaps he’d be able to deduce it if he ever met John’s sister, but for now he had to continuously try to push the questions about her from his mind.

“Do you want her to be there?” Sherlock asked, feeling the need to say something but feeling a bit unsure what to say.

John looked at him, his brow furrowed a bit as he thought about the question, “I don’t know, to be honest.  Part of me does because this is the woman who raised her and who loved her, she deserves to have Harry there to mourn her death.  And Harry is my sister, she's been there for everything big in my life.  But the other part of me feels like Harry doesn’t deserve to be there; she doesn’t deserve the closure.”  John looked down at his hands, “Does that sound awful?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said, John glanced up sharply at him and Sherlock hurried on. “It does sound awful, from what I know of funerals they are meant to be a means for people to find peace with death and it seems Harry needs to find peace with your mother for whatever reason.  But I completely understand why you feel her coming would be unfair.  She had a chance to make actual peace with a living human and chose not to.  I understand the vindictive sort of anger that makes you feel she doesn’t deserve to be at peace about making such a terrible choice, which undoubtedly caused your mother a great deal of pain.”

“I sound awful when you put it like that.” John said with a groan, rubbing his face tiredly with his hands.  “What kind of awful person doesn’t want their sister to find closure?”

“You’re not an awful person.”  Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “Not at all.  Your feelings of anger are well justified and no one would blame you if you turned her away.  But,” Sherlock continued over the words of protest John had begun to spout.  “You would never do something like that.  You would never turn her away if she came, you may feel this anger but you would never act on those feelings.  You are the most unerringly loyal, good person I have ever known.  Besides, feelings are not inherently good or bad, it’s the actions that come as a result which cause the problem.  And regardless of your personal feelings about something, you are not the type of person to inflict pain on other people because of how you feel.”  Rather the opposite of Sherlock, himself; Sherlock mused.  He was so often completely oblivious to the emotional needs of others, he was so quick to lash out and try to hurt someone, it had become second nature to him.

“Thank you.” John said softly, reaching across the table to rub his thumb along Sherlock’s knuckles. 

Sherlock nodded once, “It’s merely a statement of observable data.” he replied.

John laughed, “Well thank you for taking the time to observe.”

After a moment Sherlock said, “I should shower.” 

“Go ahead.  I’ll clean up the breakfast dishes.  Thanks for breakfast.”

Sherlock got ready quickly; styling his hair and putting on his favorite suit before he returned to the living room.  He found that John hadn't moved an inch from where he was when Sherlock left the room.  The breakfast dishes remained untouched (not that Sherlock gave a damn) and he was sitting at the breakfast table staring at microwave as though it could give him the answers he seemed to be searching for.  His hair hadn't been smoothed out and he hadn't put on his dress shirt and tie yet.  He looked so lost and alone.  Somehow, even though John wasn't much older than Sherlock himself, he had never thought of John as young; he was kind and mature and intelligent. He seemed older than someone in their mid twenties usually did. But sitting there, staring off into space, he looked vulnerable and much younger. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and John's head snapped up, he looked around at the table in front of him before guiltily returning his gaze to Sherlock’s, “Sorry.  I got a bit lost there.” 

Sherlock shook his head, “It's fine.  I can take care of the dishes when we get home.”

John raised a skeptical eyebrow, “You never take care of the dishes.  Based on the evidence at hand,” John said with a good natured quirk to his lips, “I'd have to say you hate dishes as much as any other household chore.”

Sherlock huffed, “I am more than capable of doing a few dishes.”

“I'll believe it when I see it.” John said as he went over to where he'd draped his dress shirt across the back of his chair.  He put the shirt on over his vest and quickly buttoned it up before tucking it into his pants. 

“That shirt is a good color on you.” Sherlock said sincerely.  The blue brought out John’s eyes and was nice with the golden undertones in his skin. 

John wrinkled his nose as he fought with the tie he was attempting to put on. 

“Here.” Sherlock said, reaching out and stilling John’s hands.  “I realize you aren't looking forward to this day but there's no need to try to strangle yourself.”

There was a slight pause and Sherlock's hands froze on John's tie, as he realized belatedly that this, like so many other things this morning, was perhaps a bit not good.  Before he could say a word to apologize, John snorted. Sherlock looked up and they made eye contact, after a moment they both lost their composure and started chuckling.  “We shouldn't laugh,” John said through a giggle that Sherlock found more endearing than he probably ought to.  “It's indecent.”  John shook his head and Sherlock went back to tying his tie, both of them sporting a grin on their faces.  “My mother would have loved you.”

Sherlock glanced up as he slid the knot neatly into place. “I doubt that.” 

“Thanks.” John said as he checked his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace.  “She would have.” he assured him. “She told me before she died that I should find someone who made me happy and appreciate them everyday.”  John reached out and squeezed Sherlock's hand.  “You just made me laugh on the day of my mother's funeral.  I think it's safe to say you make me happy.”

Sherlock glanced down and away from John.  He couldn't quite look him in the eye.  He didn't really feel like he was the type of person anyone would like, let alone someone's mother. “I'm glad I make you happy.” he said instead of arguing. 

John gave his hand one more squeeze before he moved to pick up his suit coat and slip it on over his shoulders. “Ready?” 

“Whenever you are.”

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------

When they arrived back at Baker Street that evening, Sherlock felt completely exhausted and rather irritable. It was a feeling he was working hard to ignore, he was trying to be supportive of John, but the day had been ridiculously tedious; how people could be so incredibly stupid was beyond him. 

He'd held his tongue most of the day, he'd been charming and quiet and people hadn't batted an eye at him.  But it had taken all of his considerable will power not to give in to the desire to verbally eviscerate someone who had claimed that mobile phones had been the cause of John's mother’s cancer, or the person who'd suggested that perhaps John should have helped her by giving her random herbal supplements and essential oils. 

John was a doctor for crying out loud.  Of course he'd tried everything imaginable to save his mother, how presumptuous and rude to imagine they knew something about medicine that he didn't.  In short, by the time everyone else had left and he and John were finally allowed to leave, Sherlock was internally fuming and ranting at the people he'd encountered. 

He stomped up the stairs to the living room, John following more sedately behind him.  John hadn't said a word on the entire cab ride home.  He'd accepted everyone's condolences and what they seemed to think were words of wisdom with a nod and a soft word of thanks.  He was so ridiculously polite to these people who had no business requiring him to work so hard when he was going through so much. 

Sherlock stomped over to the sofa and flopped down on it, waiting for John to come and take his customary place at his head.    
John didn't come over immediately however, and Sherlock heard him fiddling around with the kettle and mugs.  Sherlock sighed, he should have offered to do that.  He stood up off the sofa and went to the kitchen where John stood staring at the kettle. 

“Alright?” John asked, glancing at Sherlock. 

“Social protocol dictates that I should be the one asking you that question.” Sherlock said with a huff. 

John gave him a half grin, his eyes full of affection. “There's no real protocol for things like this.  Not for real friends, anyway.”

“Well maybe there should be.” Sherlock snarked irritably.  “Then perhaps you wouldn't have been bombarded by buffoons all morning who assumed that they knew something you didn't.”

John cocked an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?” 

“All the people who offered their condolences with words of wisdom about cancer research, ‘Oh, I know just how you feel, John.’” Sherlock mocked. “‘Why only last year my parakeet got a rare form of bird cancer and we had to have her put down.’” 

“Bird cancer?” John asked incredulously. “What are you on about? No one told me anything about bird cancer.” John said reasonably while he poured the tea.

“I was exaggerating for effect. But two people told you about their pets who had died because of cancer, and _several_  people tried to tell you about different ways cancer is being treated now and supposed causes.” Sherlock grumbled, “As though the death of their pet could compare to the loss of the woman who raised you and as though you aren't a _doctor_ who knows the latest research regarding an array of medical conditions, including cancer.”

“Are you in a strop on my account?” John asked suddenly. 

“I'm not having a strop.” Sherlock replied, affronted, “I simply can't believe the lengths people will go to in order to make their own loss the center of attention.”  Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, “People are idiots.”

John leaned in so quickly that Sherlock was completely unprepared for it.  He pressed his lips to Sherlock's and Sherlock could feel John's grin against his own lips.  He wasn't sure what John could possibly be grinning about, but he couldn't help the warm fluttery feeling at the base of his spine, knowing something he'd done was making him happy.  John reached up and held his face in his palms, pressing one last lingering kiss to his lips before pulling away with a grin.

“What on earth was that for?” Sherlock asked, blinking at John. 

“Because I love the way you see the world.  And I love that you have no desire to be politically correct or make false attempts at sympathizing with something you haven't experienced.” John shrugged, “Just for being you.”

Sherlock blinked at him, his mind struggling to comprehend what John had just said and stumbling repeatedly over the word love.  He couldn't understand why his stomach was swooping the way it was, or why he felt a bit light headed.  Logically, he didn't believe in the constructs of love, he didn't believe in the words nor the meaning that people had assigned them and so he found his reactions to the word passing John's lips most puzzling.

Taking a deep breath, and attempting to settle his racing heart, he reminded himself that John hadn't said he loved him. Merely that he had loved certain characteristics Sherlock possessed.  Perhaps he would similarly love those traits in any other person he knew. 

But he could never recall a person other than John who had been happy simply because Sherlock had been himself and spoken his mind about something he found distasteful which most people had learned innately.   He chewed nervously on his lip, completely unsure which type of response he was meant to give John and befuddled by how he was supposed to be feeling about his words.

While he understood all of the words John had said to him, he was completely baffled by the order and the meaning of the words when they were strung together in the way John had. 

“I don't understand.” Sherlock confessed. 

John smiled at him, a soft affectionate smile that made Sherlock's pulse thud quicker in his veins once again, “That's alright.” He said softly. “I'm afraid I'm probably not making much sense today.”  He turned and broke the spell he'd cast over Sherlock as he picked up the two cups of tea he'd made, handing one to Sherlock and taking the other one himself.  “Would you like to watch some telly?  I think there's a Doctor Who marathon today.” John offered.

Sherlock nodded, but was still thinking about what John had said.  John sat down and Sherlock followed, stretching out with his head cushioned on John's lap.  John stroked his fingers through Sherlock's curls and Sherlock found himself soothed even as he continued to struggle to understand what he was thinking and feeling.  Damn John for never making any sense.

John drifted off to sleep and Sherlock was still deep in thought when the doorbell rang. “Damn.” Sherlock muttered. “I thought I'd disabled that already.  I can't stand that noise.”

John snorted,”We need that noise, you numpty.  How else are we meant to know when someone is at our door?”

He started to shift out from under Sherlock but with a great sigh, Sherlock decided he should probably get the door. “I'll get it.” He grumbled. “You stay put and drink your tea.”

John laughed, “Thanks.”

“Don't get used to it.” Sherlock snarked but he could feel a grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he went downstairs and opened the door.

The girl standing on the step turned around and looked at him, it was the girl Sherlock had met the night he and John had gone drinking. Clara. 

“Umm. Hi.” she said, “It's Sherlock, right?  Is John home?”

“Now is not really a good time.” Sherlock said, unconsciously closing the door a bit. 

“Yeah.” She said, a twinge of panic in her tone. “I know it's not.  But it's really important.” She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears, “Please.” she whispered. 

Sherlock looked her up and down, he took in the dark circles under her eyes, how completely exhausted she looked, she held her right arm cradled to her chest as though she were in pain, her curly hair was tangled.  When he looked closely he could see that her makeup wasn't meant to merely conceal dark circles from fatigue but a sizable bruise under her left eye as well. She looked completely exhausted and on the verge of tears. 

Sherlock was torn; on the one hand, John would undoubtedly want to see her.  On the other hand, John had had a tremendously difficult day, the last thing he needed was to see a girl who was clearly being abused, most likely by his sister. 

The decision was taken out of his hands a moment later when John poked his head out of the door upstairs and looked down at where he and Clara stood, “Who’s here, Sherlock?” He called down the stairs.

With a sigh, Sherlock opened the door and let her in, “Clara.” He said with a resigned sigh.  He gestured for her to head up the stairs and watched carefully as she gingerly moved up the steps, grasping the banister for support.

“Hi, Clara. What brings you-?” John started, but cut himself off as he saw her begin her ascent. By the time she had reached the fourth step he was hurrying down the stairs to wrap his arm around her waist and help her. 

“What happened?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. 

“Promise me you aren't going to overreact.” 

“Overreacting is all a matter of perspective.” Sherlock supplied from his position on the staircase behind the two of them. 

John snorted, “He's not wrong.”

When they got up to the living room John turned to look at Sherlock, “Would you make Clara a cup of tea, please?” 

Sherlock got the distinct impression that he was being dismissed, he suspected this was a piece of the past that John had never told him and he couldn't help the stab of hurt and jealousy that he was sharing it with this girl instead.  Logically, he knew John hadn't chosen to share it with her, but he was continuing to speak with her about it none the less.  He nodded curtly but continued to listen carefully to the conversation John was having with Clara from his position in the kitchen.

“What happened?” John prompted again once Sherlock was out of the living room. 

“It's nothing.” she told him.  “Just a few bruises and a sore wrist.  I just needed somewhere to crash that wasn't my parents house.”  There was a small pause, "My parents would lose their minds if they saw me right now." She murmured thoughtfully and Sherlock wondered if perhaps she was in a bit of shock. 

“As well they should." John said sternly.  "Let me take a look at your wrist and the bruises you aren't concerned with.”

Sherlock heard Clara sigh but there was no further discussion on the matter so Sherlock assumed she had acquiesced.  As the kettle came to a boil he heard Clara hiss and curse.

“Sorry.” John murmured sympathetically. “I'm afraid your wrist is sprained.” 

Sherlock came out with the tea and found Clara sitting on the sofa, John perched on the edge of the coffee table with her wrist in his hand.  His mouth was drawn into a thin line and his normally soft, kind eyes were hard as stone.  Sherlock had never seen him look this angry. 

“Right.” John said, “I'm going to get you an ice pack and then I am going to go and have a long chat with my sister.”

“No, John.” Clara pleaded, reaching out and grasping his forearm with her uninjured hand. “Please it isn't worth it.  She's in a lot of pain right now, she took your mums death really hard even though it may not seem that way to you.”

John laughed without mirth, “You think that makes this okay?”

“No.” she said reasonably. “That's why I left.  I told her to sleep off the alcohol and call me when she was ready to apologize.”

“An apology isn't fucking good enough.” John snarled. “She knows what shite like this does to people, to families.”

“I know.  But I love her and she loves me.”

“How does that make it any better?  How dare she treat someone she loves like this.” John fumed. 

“It’s an ingrained emotional response to stress and emotional trauma.” Clara said. “And it only happened once.”

“Bollocks!”  John said, his voice dangerously low, Sherlock honestly thought this was more frightening than if he'd begun simply yelling. “That bruise on your cheek is easily 2 days old,” he said gesturing at the marks on her face, “While the bruises on your wrist are fresh as are the ones coloring where she wrapped her hand around your neck, they aren't even fully shaped into the marks her fingers left on you.”  He shook his head, “You give her all of these excuses but I grew up the same way she did, I'm going through the same loss she is now, and I've had to overcome the same trials as she has.  I would never treat anyone, least of all someone I love, the way she has treated you.” John growled. 

“And how would you know a thing like that, John?” Clara fumed.  "You have no idea how you would treat someone you love because you refuse to let anyone close to you.  You refuse to even try to love people or let them love you because if they did, they might hurt you and you simply can't live with that.  You can't open yourself up to the possibility that there might be someone who is made for you out there because you've forgotten how to believe in people."

Clara continued to speak but Sherlock stopped listening, suddenly making a deduction he hadn't been at all prepared for. John’s father had been abusive.  It's why Harry and her mother didn't get on, she blamed her mother for not getting her out of that house.  It's why she'd continued the cycle of abuse with her partner now.  It explained why John was so irate.  It explained all of the conversations Sherlock had heard about John's childhood but never fully understood.  The comment John had made at the coffee house suddenly made sense as well, _I made the decision a long time ago that I wasn't going to be anyone's punching bag._

It explained, Sherlock realized with a jolt, why he'd taken a liking to Sherlock in the first place.  He'd related to him and to the difficulty he was facing.  Sherlock had been right in the beginning, John had been trying to be a hero, he had wanted to save someone.  But it wasn't because he had a hero complex, it was because he was trying to right the wrongs of his past.  It seemed John's entire existence at the moment was about trying to atone for his past.  It's why he'd tried to join the army, to become the protector of the weak and to stand up and fight against a force which threatened other people's happiness and freedom.  It's why he'd become a doctor, he'd wanted to use his hands as a means for healing where his father had done the exact opposite. 

His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he thought about the implications of all of this.  Why hadn't John told him?  Was it just something he'd wanted to hold over Sherlock's head? Or did he truly trust Sherlock so little that he thought Sherlock would try to manipulate him using this information?  

Sherlock’s mind was racing so fast that hardly noticed as the tea cup slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces.  He turned, fleeing the room and dashing down the stairs, ignoring John calling out for him to stop.  He had to get away, he had to think.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers,
> 
> I'm so sorry for the delay in posting. My sister got married and I just didn't have any time to call my own. I have the next three chapters written and they should be up very soon. We are nearing the end now! Thank you for all of your encouragement (and patience) as I have written this work. <3

_John_

John Watson was having a terrible day. Not just a sort of bad day, but a completely and totally rubbish day. There was literally nothing that had gone right since he'd woken up this morning. (Except maybe the french toast Sherlock had made this morning, that had been divine and he shouldn’t hold the rest of the horrific day against the french toast.) But between his mother’s funeral, then Clara showing up with the snot beaten out of her, and now Sherlock completely disappearing John was at his wits end.  His life had been like one of those accidents on the motorway where it started with one car colliding with another and ended in a fifteen car pile up. What had he done to deserve a day like today?

“Where is he going?” Clara asked.

“No idea.” John replied with a weary sigh.  The only thought that had carried him through this day was the thought of getting to curl up in bed with Sherlock and maybe order some takeaway once it was over. He'd spent the entire day wanting to be back in their flat away from the noise and the people who's concern felt like it was smothering him. Wearily John rubbed his forehead, he had to go after him, there wasn’t really any choice to make. The idiot hadn’t even taken a coat with him. He pulled himself up off the sofa and trudged toward the door and picked up his coat.

He shrugged his coat on over his shoulders. “Look, Clara, you're welcome to stay here as long as you like but I’m sorry I have to go. I need to figure out what just happened with Sherlock.”  He glanced over at Clara where she was sitting on the sofa and felt a twinge of sympathy which was rapidly engulfed in a cloud of anger at his sister. How could she be this stupid? How could she be this cruel? He was almost torn between going to look for Sherlock and going to his sister's house to give her a piece of his mind.  

“John,” she called out before he could quite reach the door. He turned and looked at her with his eyebrows raised. “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

“You were,” he acknowledged with a nod, “But I think you're entitled to an extreme reaction after a day like today. Besides," he said, too tired to care about keeping up the pretense that he didn't care for Sherlock more than as a friend, "If you’d said that to me a few weeks ago I would have told you that you were right.”

She gave him a soft smile, even as her eyes filled with tears, “Does he know you feel that way?”

John shrugged, “I don't really know what he knows.  We aren’t doing the emotional bit.”

“I don't know what that means.”

“Neither do I.” John replied with a wry grin. He zipped up his coat and headed down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. He looked around and tried to think like Sherlock. Where could he have gone?  What was he looking for?  Better yet, what was he running from?

John had so many questions for Sherlock, there was so much he wanted to know about how Sherlock felt and what he thought.  And this most recent development only added to his list of questions.  Based on the way this day was going, John wasn't so sure he would ever get answers.

\----------------------------------------------------

As it happened, John was incapable of thinking the way Sherlock did. He checked in parks and he checked down by the Thames. He went to Bart’s and checked to see if he'd gone to run experiments on body parts other than the ones in the freezer in their flat. He wandered around the science building on Sherlock’s campus. Finally, he started wandering around all of the bars he could find near their flat. He’d been looking for Sherlock for nearly three hours, had sent him half a dozen texts, and had left him four voicemails; finding Sherlock in a city as big as London was like finding a needle in the proverbial haystack.  The chill had permeated his jacket and his shoes; the tips of his ears were so cold they were stinging and he couldn't feel his toes.  Weariness was like a weight that had settled around his shoulders and bogged him down.  He was starting to feel rather irritable when he walked past the entrance to a dark alleyway and happened to glance down.

In the shadows he could make out two figures, one of whom was without a doubt Sherlock Holmes, John had spent more than  his fair share of time looking at Sherlock’s profile in the dim light to recognize him by now.  But there was another man standing with him and even the sight of him made John uneasy.  He was shuffling his feet and glancing around them, fidgeting with the pockets on his coat nervously.

Enough was enough, John had no interest in knowing what Sherlock was doing in this dank alley with a man like that.  He started toward the two of them, calling out Sherlock’s name as he did.  The other man turned and looked between John and Sherlock then bolted off down the alley.  It was just as well, John thought begrudgingly, he was prepared to do all sorts of things to keep Sherlock safe but that didn’t mean that he had any interest in actually doing them.

Sherlock had turned away from John and was calling out to the man, telling him he was an idiot. He bundled his arms across his chest and let out a huff, he seemed to be refusing to look back a John. He must be freezing, John could easily make out the goosebumps along his neck and the small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, his cheeks had a rosy hue from the chill; his button up shirt and trousers did little to stop the wind and cold from penetrating his skin. A shiver wracked his narrow frame and without a conscious thought John slipped out of his own coat and put it around Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock turned and glared at him, his eyes narrowing in on him and burning holes through him. He looked like he was furious with John and something inside of John burned resentfully at the thought. What could he possibly be mad about?  What had John done that was so bad that he'd had to run out without a coat so he could talk to what John suspected was a drug dealer?

“What?” Sherlock spat at him, as he tore the coat off his shoulders and attempted to hand it to John.

Stubbornly, John crossed his arms over his chest and refused to take back the jacket. He consciously relaxed his body, taking a deep breath and exhaling it through his nose. Getting upset wasn’t going to do any good, they would never get anywhere if they both got angry. “Look, I don't know why you’re upset,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, “But it’s bloody freezing out here and it’s been a really long day. Can we just go home and talk about it?” he pleaded.

“Why? Feeling guilty?” Sherlock sneered at him.

“Guilty?” John spluttered, completely lost, still fighting to keep his irritation from getting the better of him. “What should I feel guilty about?”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, “Unbelievable.” He shook his head, “Go home, John.” He turned and started off down the alleyway back toward the street.

“Go home!?" John shouted as he took off after Sherlock, he'd just spent three hours wandering around in the cold to find Sherlock; he'd be damned if he was just going to give up and go home now.  "I’ve been out here looking for you for three hours and now that I’ve found you, you want me to turn around and go home?”

“Yes.” Sherlock snapped, spinning back around to look at John once more, anger blazing in his eyes. “I didn’t ask you to come looking for me and I didn’t want you to. Just leave me alone. I’m done with this charade.”

“What charade, Sherlock? What are you talking about?” John asked in exasperation. "Why won't you just talk to me?"

“You can’t even see what you’re doing.” Sherlock said viciously. “Do you want the truth, John? You don’t understand yourself and I’m done being a puppet for you to fix your daddy issues with. Leave me alone.”

“My daddy issues?” John growled, feeling his nostrils flare at what Sherlock was implying. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think I have a better understanding of what I’m talking about than you do. And it disgusts me that you can’t even wrap your head around the motivations for your actions.”

John’s head was spinning and he could feel his pulse thundering in his ears. Sherlock had no right talking about a past he didn’t understand; John didn’t bring up the past Sherlock had endured and throw it in his face. This was completely unfair and in the righteous indignation John felt himself snap. He couldn’t do it, not today, not after everything else that had happened. “You know what, fine.” John snapped, throwing his hands up in the air; two could play at this game. John had just as much ammunition about Sherlock’s past as John had about his. In this moment he couldn’t stop himself from lashing out at Sherlock, let Sherlock hurt as much as he was hurting him. “I’ll leave you the fuck alone. Go ahead, get high, see if I give a shit. Better yet, go back to that arsehole who beats the shit out of you because hey,” John said shrugging his shoulders, “At least he doesn’t have daddy issues.”

John turned and stomped away, positively fuming, leaving Sherlock to his own devices


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers,
> 
> This chapter is rather dark (the light part is coming, I pinkie promise) and I would like to reiterate that there will be references to drug use and abuse. I know these things have been tagged and I know I've given the warning before but I would hate to have someone triggered by something they read in one of my works.

_Sherlock_

Once, when Sherlock was a little boy, his father took him out fishing. Mycroft and Wendell had been away at school and his father had thought it might be fun for the two of them to go out fishing together. The entire way to the brook, Sherlock had rambled on and on, in the way children do, about all of the things he knew about fish. He could still remember the warmth of the sun on his face that day and the way his father’s hat had flopped around his ears as he nodded while he listened indulgently to Sherlock.

Fishing, it turned out, had been exceedingly dull for Sherlock until he’d finally caught a fish. His father had helped him reel it in and then once they caught it, they removed the hook and dropped it into a bucket full of water. Then fishing had gotten interesting. His father had gone back to the brook and continued to catch fish but Sherlock had been curious about the fish they’d already caught. He’d measured it and carefully written down the description and the name so he could compare it to his book about fish at home. He’d examined it’s scales and watched the way it moved through the water. He’d spent the entire afternoon watching that fish and writing down observations of its behaviour, much to his father’s amusement.

When the sun had started to sink in the sky, they’d picked up Sherlock’s bucket and the second bucket his father had four other fish swimming around in and taken them home. His father had even let him carry his own bucket upon Sherlock’s insistence that it was his fish.

Once they’d gotten home, his father had taken one of the fish he’d caught and shown Sherlock how to kill it with a mallet before passing the mallet off to him and expecting him to do the same. Killing the fish had been surprisingly difficult for him he'd sat there staring at the fish he’d been examining all day for some indeterminable amount of time, but he’d finally managed to do it. Then his father had showed him how to insert the knife, slice up along the fish’s underbelly and then clean out its entrails, rinsing it thoroughly once he’d finished.

As he stood here now, watching John stomp away from him (without his bloody jacket) he was reminded once again of that fish whose body he'd gutted and flayed open. He had the sinking feeling that he'd just done the very same thing to John Watson.

His emotions swirled around him in a thick, dark cloud. He was angry and confused, and he felt like he needed some distance. When he’d left the flat it had been as much about getting away from John as anything else; John made his head foggy, he re-prioritised Sherlock’s thoughts and actions. So much so that Sherlock had begun to see the world and himself differently because somewhere along the way John had convinced him that the world was in fact a different place than Sherlock had previously believed it to be. He’d thought that in leaving the flat he would be able to distance himself from the world John had shown him and hoped the confusion that existed in caring for someone else might become less burdensome. Now that he’d left and come back into the world which he thought he’d known, thought he'd understood, he found that he hated it. John’s omission of the truth of his past had left Sherlock reeling and feeling completely out of sorts and uncomfortable in his own skin.

But even as he stood outside staring after John’s angry form, he knew he didn’t want this world. He wanted the world John had shown him and made him believe in. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. His rational mind told him that the world John believed in and saw was fictitious. The relationship he undoubtedly envisioned, the version of Sherlock’s best self that he believed Sherlock was capable of being, the way he viewed the people around him; it was all a lie. But it was a beautiful lie and irrationally Sherlock longed for this world. He wanted to believe in that place, he wanted to believe in himself as much as John had seemed to.

On the other hand if John had lied about his past, what else was he lying about? Even if it was a lie by omission it was something that was so deeply rooted in John’s psyche that he hardly realized the way it affected his day to day life. Furthermore, the version of Sherlock he envisioned was the version shaped by his impression of what he believed a saved abuse victim could be. Sherlock didn’t want to be a saved abuse victim. He didn’t want John to shape his view of him based on something as incredibly mundane as that.

Yet, as angry as he was at John, the more he thought about it the more he realized he was even angrier with himself for allowing himself to be defined by something that had happened to him rather than by who he was. He was angry that he’d let himself be in such a terrible place as he’d been with Victor, but he was even angrier that he’d fallen for the lie that he had been liked for who he was as a person. He was angry at the way he’d let himself be sucked into the world which he’d known from the beginning would only lead to heartache and disappointment.

He realized the trouble was that he didn’t need to escape from John as much as he it like he needed distance from his own mind.

That’s where his pursuit of drugs had come in; he couldn’t understand how it was this difficult to find someone to sell him drugs. It was unbelievable. He’d realized rather quickly once he’d started talking to dealers that the man who’d bribed all of the dealers in London wasn’t Victor at all. The fear present in the dealer’s eyes, the way they glanced over their shoulders at traffic cameras, the way they studiously avoided describing the man who’d paid them off led to only one possible conclusion: it had been Mycroft. Sherlock should have realized it sooner, Victor didn’t have the financial means to bribe drug dealers not to sell to him.

That was suddenly of significantly less consequence however. Ironically, John’s outburst had provided the solution to Sherlock’s conundrum. He was right there was one exceptionally simple way to get drugs; walking around attempting to bribe every dealer he could find was definitely not it. If he found Victor, he knew Victor would get him high without a thought for the sake of his own pride with vindictive glee. More to the point, Victor was nothing if not a creature of habit; he always went to the same place on Friday nights, Sherlock might as well try there next.

He set off at a brisk pace, slipping John’s jacket begrudgingly around his shoulders. It was a little bit short in the sleeve length but broad enough in the shoulders that it made up for it. The club Victor spent his time at on Friday nights wasn’t more than a ten minute walk away and Sherlock made his way inside.

The bouncer waved him through to the back room and the man standing guard gave him a lascivious grin and his eyes roamed down Sherlock’s body then back up again, “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been busy. Is Victor here?” Sherlock asked curtly.

“I heard you and Victor cut ties.”

“I don't really see how that is any of your concern.” Sherlock said, giving the man a withering look. “You know just as well as I do that if you walked back there right now and asked him if you should let me in, he would say yes.”

The man’s lip curled but he nodded toward the back room and Sherlock went through the door and down the hall. He hated the way it smelled back here. It was musty and moldy, and it reeked of urine and vomit. The first time he’d come through he’d almost thrown up just at the smell.

He turned his nose into the collar of the jacket he was wearing without thinking and immediately regretted it as he inhaled the smell of John. He was filled once more with swirling, conflicting emotions and he pushed through to the back room, trying to escape himself.

When he walked through the door, he saw Victor standing over a teenager’s shoulder, watching as he prepared the batch of cocaine.

Victor’s head snapped around to look at him and a wolfish grin spread across his face, “What have we here?” he asked as he took a step toward Sherlock. “Does your _friend_ know you're here? Did you get bored of your straight laced doctor or did you just miss me?”

“I’m not here for pleasantries.” Sherlock said in the most business like tone he could muster. “I’m here to buy some drugs and then I plan on leaving.”

Victor cocked his head at him, “You can buy drugs anywhere, baby. What you can’t find anywhere is me.”

“Yes, believe me, I have tried. It seems someone has put the fear of the law in them where I'm concerned. I know how you feel about the government, Victor,” Sherlock said, remembering how sympathetic he'd been in the face of Wendell’s incarceration. “Selling me drugs appeals to your sense of fighting ‘the man,'" he said, making air quotes around his words.

Victor chuckled, “I’ll make a deal with you, suck me off and I’ll give you the cocaine for free.”

Sherlock let out a cold laugh, “I’ll pass.” He turned and started to walk away mentally preparing himself for one of two outcomes, either Victor would cave or he'd have to face the tedium of finding a drug dealer who wasn't under Mycroft’s thumb. He knew he could find a drug dealer that would sell to him, he just had to offer them the right price.

Victor reached out and grabbed his arm, his grip tight as a vice and Sherlock felt his blood run cold. He turned and jerked his arm away, “Don’t touch me.”

Victor held his hands up in mock surrender, a cocky smirk on his lips. “One kiss and I’ll give you the drugs for free. Alex here will whip you up your own batch; seven percent solution, right?” He said nodding toward the boy who was sitting watching the exchange silently.

“Fine.” Sherlock snapped. It was just a kiss, what did it matter? It was worth it if it meant he could escape his thoughts and emotions for a little while and it was worth the effort of trying to bribe someone to take his money for drugs.

Victor’s closed the gap between them, infringing on Sherlock’s personal space and Sherlock had to exhale to push the scent of Victor from his nose and keep himself from retching. He hadn’t realized quite how much he hated this man nor exactly how much damage had been inflicted on some invisible consciousness. Victor was repugnant.

Victor’s hand came up and threaded through Sherlock’s hair, tugging at it sharply until his head was angled the way he wanted it. Then his lips descended viciously on Sherlock’s.

It was so different from the kisses he'd become accustomed to. If pressed, he couldn't entirely explain how kissing John was different than Victor. Somehow, kissing John felt sincere, it felt like sharing a piece of himself with the other person. John always cradled his face like he was something precious, his eyelids fluttered shut, and he had this look of contentment as though Sherlock had given him the greatest gift imaginable. More often than not Sherlock could feel a small grin curving up the corners of John's lips as he molded them to Sherlock's. And when they parted John would always lean forward and press one more soft kiss to his lips before pulling back fully. It was almost formulaic in its predictability and yet Sherlock's toes curled and the pit of his stomach tingled every time it happened.

Victor's kiss felt like an attack. There was no other word to describe it. Sherlock had been in fist fights that left him feeling less violated and bruised. Everything about having Victor’s lips touching his felt wrong. His lips were rough and unyielding. The tongue that forced its way through Sherlock’s lips was hard and drenched in saliva. The stubble on his face rubbed harshly against Sherlock’s skin. The smell was the worst part though, somehow the scent which Sherlock couldn’t even properly define, overwhelmed him completely. It made his heart hammer faster in his chest, his stomach turned and he had to fight the urge to tear himself from Victor’s grasp to vomit, it overtook his mind and senses and left him completely reeling.

After what felt like a small eternity, Victor pulled back. He ran his hands down Sherlock’s shoulders and groped his arse.

Sherlock shoved him away and took a step back, he regretted the decision to come here immensely but now that he’d done the hard part he might as well receive his reward.

Victor smirked at him once more before reaching over and taking a vial from the table and holding it out to Sherlock. As he took the vial from Victor’s hand a feeling of emptiness weighed heavily on him. He was overcome by the feeling that everything he'd worked to become, everything he'd wanted, everything he was, had been ripped out of him as he took the vial. He realized that he'd been the fish all along.


	31. Chapter 31

_John_

John had probably been wandering around for about half an hour when the anger started to fade and the guilt over what he’d said started to sink in. He had the sinking, almost sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and his mind kept replaying his words over and over again. He was kicking himself, he had an awful temper when he let it get out of control and he feared he’d done just that. The things he’d said were malicious and cruel, he’d said exactly what he hoped would hurt Sherlock the most in the moment and wielded the sins of his past like a knife. He hadn’t meant a word of it. Sherlock was brilliant, surely he must realize that John had just been angry and he hadn’t meant it?

Now he didn’t quite know what to do because on the one hand every fiber of his irrational being wanted to just go out and find Sherlock again. After finding Sherlock with that man in the alley he had a reasonably good idea of what he was doing, it shouldn’t be all that difficult to find him. Part of him wanted to just shake some sense into him. What was he thinking? Throwing away everything he’d been working towards, everything he’d pushed his way from; it was such a waste.

But as much as he wanted to rescue him he also found that logic (and self preservation) told him to respect Sherlock’s boundaries. He didn’t want to push himself into places he wasn’t welcomed, in part because he didn’t like pushing people’s boundaries. The other side of that was the fear that if he pushed Sherlock he would only disappear further into his shell. He feared that it would make Sherlock leave entirely, and perhaps it was cowardice but he really didn’t want to lose Sherlock because his doctor’s sensibilities took over.

Additionally, there were some things in life that it seemed were things you just had to face by yourself. In John’s experience, there were certain things that he’d had to overcome on his own without the help and advice of other people. There were mistakes one simply had to make in order to learn and to grow and the only way for you to get passed that sort of thing was to do it yourself. He could continue slaying dragons for Sherlock but he feared more dragons would simply continue to appear until Sherlock did it himself.

It left him with quite a conundrum and after the day he’d had John just wasn't sure what to do. Maybe they could just go home and deal with the whole thing tomorrow, his brain thought hopefully. He’d just taken out his phone to send Sherlock an apology text and beg him to just come home when it started to ring. _Unlisted_. Wonderful, what else could go wrong today?

“Hello?”

“Dr. Watson. What have you done to my brother?”

“Pardon?” John asked, struggling to maintain his polite air in the face of Mycroft’s accusations. If there was one thing he did not need at the moment, it was Mycroft sticking his nose into everything and rekindling the dying embers of John’s irritation.

“What. Have. You. Done. To. My. Brother?” Mycroft said painstakingly slowly.

“No idea.” John said in short, clipped tones, feeling his nostrils flare and his fist clench at his side. It was the truth in the strictest sense, he really didn’t know what he’d done to make Sherlock so upset. Besides, if Mycroft was going to be a wanker about this John had neither the time nor the inclination to listen to him. John didn’t owe him any sort of explanation about his personal life, regardless; it was none of his damned business.

“Then would you care to explain to me what exactly he is doing in a club with Victor Trevor and cocaine?”

John’s heart sank and he felt all the blood drain from his face. Of course the one time Sherlock actually listened to him was when John said something horrible. What other option could there be on a day going as completely pear shaped as today? “Where?” John asked.

“Oh, do keep up,” Mycroft said impatiently. “I didn’t realize Sherlock had the patience to suffer fools. He’s in a club-” Mycroft started.

“No,” John snapped, cutting him off, “Which club?”

He heard Mycroft’s jaw click shut audibly before he told him the name of the club and John headed out toward the street to catch a cab. Victor fucking Trevor. Of course Sherlock had gone out and done exactly what John had told him to in his anger. He was such an idiot, what had he done? What had he made Sherlock feel like he needed to do?

“John, if anything happens to Sherlock and I discover it is of your doing-”

“You’ll find me and have me arrested with charges that won't ever go away. I know.” John said before viciously pressing the end call button.

He was fuming. Enough. He’d had enough, it was time for John to make the choice between what was right and what was easy. As much as John wanted to give him his space and let him make his own decisions he just couldn’t. As much as he wanted to just leave it alone in hopes that they could just go back to what they had and maybe someday develop into something more, he couldn't risk his life because it was a hard conversation to have. Maybe Sherlock just needed someone to prove that they actually cared. Or maybe he didn’t, maybe he just wanted to get high and be done with John. But either way, John just couldn’t stand by and let it happen, not with Victor Trevor of all people. He was done standing to the sidelines and hoping Sherlock would realize he wanted him, time to face the music and accept the outcome whether it was favorable or not.

The cab pulled up outside of the night club and John shoved a handful of notes at the cabbie. He squared his shoulders and marched up to the door; with one look at his face the bouncer let him in without any difficulty and John pushed his way through the crowds until he got to the entrance of a room that had a man standing guard in front of it. If John were going to do drugs in this club, this would be the place for it.

John stormed toward the man but the man stood his ground and put out a hand to stop him. “You can’t come in here.”

John looked around the man into the room, squinting in an attempt to see if he can make out any figures in there. “I’m looking for a friend.” John said, looking the man up and down from head to foot, very clearly sizing him up, “A very specific friend, I’m not just browsing.”

“I don’t care who you’re looking for. You're not allowed back there,” the man said implacably.

“Sherlock Holmes.” John said, articulating his name clearly over the din of the club, “Have you seen him?”

“I told you that you need to leave.”

John slammed the man up against the wall keeping his arm firmly across the man’s windpipe; not pressing hard enough to actually do any real damage, but enough to let him know the threat was real. “Tell me where Sherlock Holmes is,” he growled.

“I don’t know.”

John glared at him and pressed a bit harder.

The man repented, “Alright, you crazy fucker. Through that door and to the right.”

John patted him on the shoulder as he pulled away, “There you go. Wasn’t that easy?”

“You’re a nutter.” He rubbed at his throat and glared at John.

John shrugged and walked through the door, he heard raised voices before he could make out the words. He followed the sound down the dark hall and to the right. When he went into the dimly lit, filthy room, he saw Sherlock standing with his hands on his hips shouting at a man whose hands were balled into fists at his side. There was a scrawny kid in a t-shirt in the corner messing around with spoons and needles.

The man swung a fist and connected with Sherlock’s cheek and the blow knocked him off his feet. Sherlock curled into a ball on the ground, curling into himself to protect his chest, face, and abdomen. The man drew his foot back, in what was clearly going to be a kick aimed at Sherlock’s kidneys, and John completely lost whatever semblance of calm he had left. He flew forward and punched whom he could only assume was Victor Trevor square in the nose. “Don’t you touch him.” John growled, subconsciously placing his body directly between Sherlock and Victor.

Victor staggered back a few steps, grabbing his nose which had started bleeding profusely, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

John squared his shoulders, “John Watson.”

Victor smeared blood across his face with the back of his hand and pulled a flick-knife out of his pocket; he sneered through the blood dripping down his face. “I’m going to cut you into pieces, John Watson.”

“Not from there you won’t,” John replied. He stepped forward until he was a mere six inches from the man. “Let me help you.”

Victor growled and he lunged forward, his hand holding the knife shooting out toward John. John caught his wrist with his left hand and brought his right hand down on his arm simultaneously, using Victor’s momentum against him and making him cry out in pain as he released the knife. John shoved him back into the wall and used his right leg to sweep his feet out from under him. He slid down the wall to the floor, letting out an agonized groan.

“You broke my arm!” Victor cried out.

“No.” John replied, bending over to pick up the knife off the floor before reaching out and feeling his wrist, “I’ve sprained it. I’m a doctor,” he said low in his throat. “I know how to sprain things.”

“You’re mental.”

“And you’re an abusive arsehole,” John replied. “Now, I want you to listen to me very carefully. You are never going to see Sherlock Holmes again.”

Victor snorted, and then immediately seemed to regret that decision if the way he reached up to grasp his nose was anything to go by. “And what makes you think for a moment that I would listen to you?”

“Because I was trained to be a surgeon in the army which means I can break every bone in your body while naming them.” John flipped the knife over in his hand and caught it, “And I know my way around a knife.” He waved the one he’d picked up in Victor’s face, Victor visibly flinched back away from the knife and John took immense satisfaction in watching him. “Stay away from Sherlock and learn some fucking manners. Are we clear?”

Victor glared at him for a long moment but then nodded begrudgingly.

“Good.” John stood up, leaving Victor crumpled against the wall. The teen who’d been in the room when John first entered was long gone and John made his way over to where Sherlock was curled into a ball on the floor. He walked around to the side Sherlock was facing, both so he could see Sherlock’s face better but also so he could keep his eyes on Victor. “Sherlock?” John said softly as he reached out and gingerly touched Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock flinched away from him, curling into a tighter ball and whimpering softly. “Please don’t,” he slurred.

John’s heart broke, what had he done? What horrors had he let happen because he couldn’t keep his temper under control? “It’s John. Everything’s going to be okay now, I promise.” he said softly.

Sherlock turned a bit, keeping his midsection covered, and opened one eye, his pupil blown wide and glassy, “John?”

“Yeah, it’s me, love.” He stroked Sherlock’s curls back off his face and Sherlock sighed shakily at the touch, his eyes drifting shut and his body unfurling from it’s tight ball. John’s heart stuttered painfully at the sight of his unguarded trust in him, a trust he certainly hadn’t earned today. “Can you stand?”

Sherlock nodded but made no move to do so.

“Alright.” John said softly, helping him into a sitting position, “That’s it. Sit up for me.” When they’d managed to get into a sitting position John said, “Up we go,” as he heaved Sherlock to his feet. “Let’s go home.” John looked back once more at Victor and Victor looked down at his wrist, refusing to meet John’s eyes. 

Sherlock leaned heavily on John as they headed out of the room and toward the club, John nodded to the guard who had let him through, “You might want to get someone to wrap Victor’s wrist and get him an ice pack for his nose.”

The man shook his head, “This is exactly why we don’t let people back there,” he grumbled.

John ignored the comment and pushed his way through the throngs of people in the club and out onto the street where he flagged down a cab. He bundled Sherlock in and then climbed in himself. “221 Baker Street.” John said and even he could hear the exhaustion in his own voice.

Sherlock leaned over and snuggled down into John’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming to get me.” Sherlock said softly.

John felt his heart completely shatter; this was intolerable, what an awful day. He cleared his throat and pressed a kiss to the crown of Sherlock’s head. “Always.” he whispered past the lump in his throat.

Sherlock dozed off a few minutes later and John was left with his thoughts. He couldn’t fathom what had set Sherlock off, why he'd decided to go and take drugs, or why he’d gone to Victor of all people. It was disconcerting at best and John couldn’t help the flutter of anxiety. He knew Sherlock could probably protect himself from Victor (and if he couldn’t, then John certainly could) but who protected Sherlock from himself? John had never quite realized before just how much Sherlock was getting in his own way.

When the cab pulled up outside of their flat, John paid the driver and rousted Sherlock from his nap. He’d managed to get Sherlock up the steps and into the foyer before turning around to lock the door. When he turned, preparing to help Sherlock up the stairs, he found that Sherlock had laid down on the steps and seemed to be dozing again.

John groaned, “Sherlock, please.” He gently shook his shoulder to pull him from his slumber once more. “Come on,” he said when Sherlock merely grunted at him, “Upstairs, then I promise you can sleep as long as you want.” He would have liked to look at the nasty bruise forming on Sherlock’s cheek but that could probably wait until tomorrow.

Sherlock groaned but allowed John to pull him to his feet and drag him up the stairs. It took a solid fifteen minutes but they finally made it. When they got through the door, John saw that Clara was still camped out on the couch, her laptop open on her lap.

She looked up at him, “Do you mind if I crash on your sofa tonight?”

John shook his head, “It’s fine. I’m going to put him in bed and then I’ll probably head up to mine. It's been a long day.”

“Is he alright?” she asked, nodding at Sherlock.

“He’ll be fine. Night.”

“Good night, John.”

John got Sherlock into his room with no small amount of effort and tugged off his trousers and dress shirt, tucking him in snugly under the covers. Sherlock sighed contentedly and John felt torn about whether he should stay or go. Clearly Sherlock had wanted space of some sort from him, but John wasn’t in love with the idea of leaving him alone while he was high.  And he refused to admit it, but he wasn't overly fond of the idea of sleeping along tonight either.

Finally, his desire to give Sherlock his personal space and respect his wishes won out over his doctorly concern (and his own personal wishes). Especially when he considered the fact that he’d decided to go in and do the exact opposite of what Sherlock had wanted by coming to get him. He could always come back in and check on him throughout the night. John leaned over and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead and brushed his hair back affectionately before he turned off the lights and headed upstairs to his room.

He changed into his pajamas and put his clothes in the hamper, he stared at his bed that looked so incredibly uninviting and empty. He’d never had trouble with sleeping alone before. With a sigh and a shake of his head to clear it, he headed back downstairs to use the loo and brush his teeth.

He reasoned he might as well pop his head in on Sherlock once more, since he was already downstairs anyway. He knew it wasn’t really necessary, his mind was just rebelling against going back upstairs and crawling into his cold bed alone. 

He pressed the door to Sherlock's room open as quietly as he could and poked his head inside. Sherlock was asleep on his side, facing the door and the light that trickled in illuminated the beginnings of what was bound to be a nasty bruise in the morning. He couldn’t resist sneaking into the room and adjusting Sherlock’s blankets so that his feet were covered, they were always like ice and it would only be worse if he didn’t have them covered. With one last, fond look John turned to leave the room.

“John?” Sherlock’s sleepy voice called out.

“Mmhmm?” He hummed, turning back to look at the lump under the covers once more.

“Stay with me?” Sherlock mumbled.

John’s heart leapt and he couldn’t help the small grin that overtook his face, or the hope that seemed to flood his veins with warmth and lift his heart. “If that’s what you want.”

Sherlock lifted the covers and patted the bed. No sooner had he crawled into bed then Sherlock was wrapping his long limbs around John and pillowing his head on John’s chest. John stroked his fingers through Sherlock's curls and gently massaged his scalp, soothing Sherlock off into sleep once more. He too soon lost the battle with weariness and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Buttercups,
> 
> We're just a couple chapters from the end now and I just need to say thank you once again for all of the kind, sweet comments you have left on this work. They always make my heart feel light and happy. You are all lovely people <3

_Sherlock_

Sherlock was pulled out of what had been a rather blissful slumber by an irritating buzzing sound that simply wouldn’t cease. There would be a moment when it stopped but then after a span of a few seconds the noise would start again. He opened one eye and saw John lying next to him fast asleep, his brow furrowed slightly; perhaps the buzzing noise was irritating him too.

Sherlock was distracted from the noise as he looked at John. Something was off, something was different. John looked the same as he always did when he slept; his hair was sleep mussed, his t-shirt was rucked up, he was snoring lightly, and his arm was wrapped firmly around Sherlock as though he was afraid he was going to disappear. The familiar sight of him sleeping made Sherlock feel warm and soft inside the way it always did.

Indeed, were it not for the irritating noise Sherlock might have contented himself with looking his fill at John and letting his mind think of nothing else until he sunk back into his dreams. But the vibrations forced Sherlock from his contemplative observations and everything went downhill from there.  
  
The first thing he registered were the sheets. They weren’t John’s flannel sheets that felt soft and cozy on Sherlock’s skin; they were plain, impersonal cotton ones. And the bed was much too large; John had a full size bed and it gave them enough room not to sleep on top of one another but kept them close. By the feel of it, this one was a queen and it left too much space between them.

They were in his room, he realized. They never slept in his room. Why had they slept in here?

In a rush the evening came back and the last vestiges of sleep, and subsequently peace, fled his mind. Sherlock looked at John, he no longer wondered if the lines wrinkling his forehead were from the buzzing noise, he knew they were because of him;  John's subconscious was undoubtedly irritated still irritated with him.

 

The buzzing started up again and Sherlock came to the conclusion that the noise was in fact his phone which, if he recalled correctly, had been in the pocket of his trousers.

Gingerly, he climbed out of bed, moving carefully so as to not wake up John, and slipped around to the side of the bed where his trousers and shirt were laying in a heap on the floor. He dug his phone out and dampened the ringing by tucking the phone under his chin as he tried to tug on a pair of pajama bottoms. When he finally managed to shimmy his way into them he snuck out of the room and into the living room.

He was met by the sight of Clara asleep on the sofa and almost groaned out loud at having nowhere to go in his own flat to answer the bloody phone when everyone was asleep. He looked around for a moment before grimacing and climbing the stairs to John’s room. On his way up he glanced at the screen of his phone. _Lestrade_. He really had the worst timing.

As soon as Sherlock got upstairs he answered what had to have been the tenth phone call Lestrade had tried. “What could possibly be this pressing at this ungodly hour of the morning?” Sherlock snapped.

“It’s about John.” Lestrade said without preamble.

“What about him?”

“I have a man at the Yard trying to press charges against him, says John broke his nose and sprained his wrist. He said it was completely unprovoked.”

Sherlock swallowed, he vaguely remembered John showing up at the club and taking him home. He hadn’t remembered a thing about Victor and John having an altercation. “That’s absurd,” Sherlock said, attempting to inject false bravado into his words.

“That’s what I said.” Lestrade replied, “Except that one of the bouncers at the club also identified John as the perp.”

“Is the man’s name Victor Trevor?” Sherlock asked.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Fine. If it is Victor Trevor, he’s probably not lying about John spraining his wrist or breaking his nose. If it’s someone else, they are definitely lying.”

“What was he thinking?”

“I don’t know, Lestrade,” Sherlock said in exasperation. “Just make it go away. Tell Victor you have a reliable source that says he’s using illegal drugs and that he’ll be charged with possession or something.”

“No,” Lestrade said indignantly. “That’s not how this works. We don’t just go around victimizing the victim because your boyfriend wanted to beat the shit out of a junkie.”

“Victor Trevor is _not_ a victim.” Sherlock snapped and then his jaw clicked shut. He’d never talked about the things Victor had done to him. He’d never told anyone, not even John. John had probably pieced together a fair bit of it from his medical records but Sherlock had never said a word. Talking about it somehow made it real, it somehow legitimized what had happened to him, and validated all of the emotions he'd so desperately tried to rid himself of. Somehow, even thinking of talking about it made Sherlock feel ashamed and foolish.

But as much as he truly didn’t want to talk about it, especially to Lestrade of all people, he had to at least say something. It was the only way to help John, who had been willing to do so much to protect him. “John wasn’t just using a junkie as a punching bag, he was protecting me.” Perhaps this would be enough, maybe admitting his weakness and his frailty would appease Lestrade’s need for justice.

“Protecting you?” Lestrade asked thickly, and Sherlock had never been more irritated with Lestrade’s lack of ability in jumping to the correct conclusion.

“Yes.” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “Victor was high when John beat him up, as was I.”

“So John beat him up because he’s your drug dealer and he didn’t want you getting high? Sorry, mate, that’s still not a good enough reason.”

“For goodness sake, Lestrade! How can you possibly be this dense? Aren’t you meant to be able to actually use the facts presented to you in order to come to some semblance of the correct conclusion?” Sherlock growled. “Truly, your incompetence is astounding. Victor was assaulting me and would have undoubtedly done far more damage than the black eye and bruised cheekbone if John hadn’t come along. I have a medical file two inches thick with broken ribs and noses, sprained wrists, a dislocated knee, and all other sorts of atrocities proving exactly what Victor is capable of.”

“Christ, Sherlock. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock said grimly.

“Good.” Lestrade said, then he continued, “What were you thinking? I thought you were clean. You’re too smart for this kind of bollocks.”

“I am clean,” he grumbled. “I just had the day from hell and there was no escaping it.”

Lestrade started to argue but then seemed to think better of it, he let out a gust of breath before asking, “Do you want to press charges against this bastard?”

Sherlock groaned, “No. I don’t want to press bloody charges but I want you to tell Victor that if he doesn’t drop his charges you’ll take him for a drug test and I will be forced to press charges of my own.”

“Right. I’ll take care of it,” Lestrade said. “But if John doesn’t give you a lecture, you call me back. I have one ready for you.”

Sherlock hung up the phone and sat down on John’s bed. He stroked his hand along the top of the sheet where it was folded neatly down over the blanket. After a moment, he gave into the feeling of hopelessness and curled up on his side, hugging John's pillow to his chest. He took deep breaths of the scent of the sheets. It was this strange mixture of the two of them and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel soothed by it.

He was dreading the conversation he knew he was going to have to have with John. It was one thing for John to not talk about his history with drugs and abuse when it was in the past and wasn’t a threat but it would be something else entirely to expect John to pretend this had never happened. He felt a burning shame in the pit of his stomach as he thought about what he'd done.  John must hate him, he must be so angry at him for going out and doing something which was inarguably stupid. And for going to Victor of all people, John must think he's so incredibly stupid and desperate. He must think Sherlock is just some stupid victim stuck in an endless cycle of abuse. Sherlock felt hot tears well up in his eyes and spill over onto his cheeks without his consent.

This was a complete and utter disaster. This was exactly why Sherlock hadn’t wanted to do the emotional bit. He’d known from the very beginning that this could never work; he and John were just too different and there was nothing to be done about it. And even if they hadn't been so very different, Sherlock was just a time bomb waiting to explode. There was no rhyme or reason to when he decided to self destruct but it seemed he couldn’t help himself. John could do so much better, surely he would be able to see that now.

Sherlock resolved to do whatever it took when John woke up to ensure that he would see it. There was no sense in the two of them continuing this charade any longer. Some of his resentment over John’s keeping his childhood a secret had faded but it served to show him he’d let his guard down and left himself open and vulnerable to something that should never have happened.

They were both messed up, neither had any sort of solid basis for a relationship. This relationship had been doomed before it had even begun.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest Readers,
> 
> I fear I must beg your forgiveness one last time in this work. Please forgive the abhorrent delay in posting this last chapter. I moved and have been working two full time jobs, and got terribly sick in the midst of all of the chaos. I may post a few related works to this one, I have a few short snippets that didn't quite fit into the end of this larger work but are in the same universe and I may get around to posting them at some point. 
> 
> As ever, this work is un-beta'd and not Brit picked. If you see anything that needs to be edited please feel free to leave a comment. 
> 
> Thank you all so very much for your lovely, kind words as I have posted this fic, I have felt so humbled and blessed by all of the kindness that has been bestowed on me. You are all lovely people.
> 
> Blessings <3

  _John_

When John woke up again, he felt foggy and disoriented; he wasn’t entirely sure what had woken him up. It was still dark outside from what he could tell through the cracks between Sherlock’s curtains. He was surprised to find that his arms were empty; Sherlock loved to cuddle, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

He was contemplating simply going back to sleep when he turned his head and found himself face to face with Sherlock, who was wide awake and staring at him. His eyebrows were drawn together in what John suspected was concern and he was chewing on his bottom lip. The fresh bruise on his cheek stood out harshly against his alabaster skin and the sight made John stomach clench.

“Hi.” John said softly, wanting to assuage his fears he reached out and gently ran his fingers over Sherlock’s cheek without bruising.

Sherlock turned his head away and didn’t respond. John let his hand fall to the space on the bed in between them which suddenly felt like it might as well have been miles rather than inches.

John waited for Sherlock to say something, anything, but when nothing was forthcoming John asked, “Alright?”

Sherlock let out a wet sounding laugh, “No.”

All traces of sleepiness vanished as John began to postulate about what could possibly be wrong. Had something happened with the drugs? Had Victor hurt him somehow before John had gotten there? Was he that upset over the things John had said in his frustration in the alley? “What’s wrong?” John asked, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears that he feared he might not be able to hear Sherlock's answer over it.

Sherlock snorted and refused to meet John’s gaze, “Can we not do the concerned bit? Can we just skip to the aggravation and the lecture?”

“No. No, we cannot skip the concerned bit. I am legitimately worried about you,” John replied. “And what lecture am I meant to be giving you at 5 in the morning?”

“It’s 4:36.” Sherlock corrected.

John groaned, he was so tired of talking around the real issues. He didn’t want to lecture Sherlock he just wanted to tell him what he meant to him; he just wanted an honest conversation about their relationship. Instead of saying the things he longed to say, he steered his mind firmly back to neutral territory. “Who the hell lectures someone at 4:30 in the morning? I don’t even know what I’m meant to lecture you about.”

“Oh come on,” Sherlock snapped irritably. “You’re a doctor, John; of course you know what you want to lecture me about. You want to lecture me about all of the terrible things that can happen to your body when you take drugs,” Sherlock said, sitting up and drawing his knees up to his chest.

John couldn’t help but be reminded of how Sherlock had curled in on himself the night before when Victor had attacked him. He cringed at the implication that Sherlock’s subconscious was preparing him for a similar sort of pain.

Sherlock continued, “Surely you wish to tell me all about the possible effects like strokes and heart attacks, increased risk of myocardial infarction, blood infections, and sudden cardiac arrest and death. You must want to tell me all about the risks of buying drugs off the street, inform me of the fact that cocaine is often mixed with quinine, local anesthetics, cornstarch, and sugar. Not to mention the fact that every time you take cocaine you are allegedly one step closer to building a dependence upon it.”

“Clearly you have little need for me to give you that lecture.” John replied dryly, intentionally working at keeping himself calm. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked at Sherlock, even though Sherlock refused to look back at him. “You already have all of the major talking points down. My guess is that you have plenty of people to tell you the facts and I sincerely doubt you’d need them to in the first place. Frankly, I’m far less interested in talking about drugs than I am in having you tell me why you felt you needed to take them in the first place. And I am somewhat less interested in hearing that than I am about understanding why you went out and found Victor of all people to take them with.” John said as steadily as he could manage, his voice only quavering a little at the end to indicate his distress.

Sherlock looked at him then, his eyebrows furrowed. “Why would you care?”

“Why would I-?” John sat up then and shifted so that he was kneeling in the bed in front of Sherlock, he needed to be able to see his face clearly, maybe then he’d be able to understand some of what Sherlock was thinking. “What the hell, Sherlock? What does that even mean? _Why do I care?"_ he asked incredulously, surely he'd misheard or misunderstood what Sherlock was asking.  When no response from Sherlock was forthcoming to correct him he said, "Because I care about you, you idiot. Because you are my best friend and I want you to be safe and happy. And, I’m sorry I said the things I said, but I can’t fathom what would possess you to go out to find your abusive ex so you could shoot up with him.”

“There it is.” Sherlock said with a vindictive sort of smile that made John heart clench, “There’s the anger and frustration at my decisions.”

“I’m not angry at you!” John all but shouted, perhaps his tone belied his words a bit but he hurried on. “I’m angry at me. And perhaps this is very egocentric of me but I can’t understand what I did that made you leave in such a rush to go and take drugs which could kill you with a person who could also arguably kill you.” John shook his head, “I’m upset because staying here with me was somehow a worse option than those things which you have been purposefully avoiding in order to build your life and your future. I’m mad at myself for losing my temper in that stupid alley. I was just confused and angry; I don't understand what I did to hurt you.”

When Sherlock said nothing, John took a deep breath, “The problems of your past are your business; I’m not going to judge you for them or try and change who you are because of those things. It doesn’t mean that I approve of those choices or that I like the kinds of things you have been through and have had to struggle to overcome but it does mean that I have no intention of holding them against you. What concerns me are the problems of your present and the problems of your future; particularly when I seem to be the cause of them.”

“You lied to me.” Sherlock said plainly.

“What? When?” John asked, his mind racing to try and find a single thing that he had ever been dishonest with Sherlock about.

“A lie by omission is still a lie.” Sherlock told him tersely. He shook his head, “My mother told me that hundreds of times during my childhood and I’d never understood what that meant until last night.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Now you’re just being intentionally obtuse," Sherlock snapped in frustration.  "You were abused as a child. Every decision you have made in your adult life has been a reflection of that and I was just too absorbed in what was happening in my own life to see it.”

“What do you mean every decision I’ve made in my adult life was because of my childhood?” He felt his hackles rise and had to force himself to take a deep breath, reminding himself that if he wanted the relationship talk they had to make it through this first.

“You wanted to join the army to war against people who were hurting people weaker than them. You became a doctor so that you could heal people of the wounds inflicted by themselves and others. You are purposefully withdrawn and put up a wall between yourself and other people so they can't hurt you, even Clara was observant enough to see that.” Finally Sherlock looked him in the eye and John almost wished he hadn't, his pain and frustration was written in his eyes as clear as day and they cut John to his very core. Sherlock lowered his voice and it was worse than if he'd shouted at him, he said, “And you became friends with me all as a means of confronting your past. You didn’t pick me because you felt any real sort of pull to me, you picked me because you hadn’t been able to save your mother and sister from your abusive father and you wanted to right that wrong.” When Sherlock finished his chest was heaving and he looked close to tears.

“Sherlock.” John said softly, his heart aching in his chest.

He reached out toward him but Sherlock swatted his hand away. “Don’t," he growled, John could see the tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, ready to fall at the slightest provocation. “Don’t touch me. I can’t think when you touch me.”

John was tempted to reach out and hug him regardless, maybe it would do him some good to stop thinking all of the terrible thoughts he had circling around in that brilliant mind of his. How could Sherlock even think something like that? How could he possibly believe that John only wanted to be with him because he wanted to save someone? But these weren’t the question he asked, “How can you not see how incredible you are?”

“Don't,” Sherlock said firmly. “Don’t lie to me, don’t placate me with words that have no meaning. Don’t talk about me, talk about yourself.”

“You want to talk about me?” John snapped. “Fine. My dad was an alcoholic who came home drunk and hurt his family. I can count on one hand the number of people I've told about my dad and nobody who knew him would have believed it. As far as the outside world is concerned, he was a good and honorable man; nobody believed Harry and the people I told didn’t believe me either. So, you’re right. I put up fucking walls because no one deserves to see the pain and the effect he had on me unless I want them to. I refuse to let my father hold that sort of control over the rest of my life. I refuse to let him dictate how people see me and interact with me for the rest of my life.

“I don't deny that the first time I met you and tried to get you to leave that place and that relationship that it was in part because of my past. I try to get every abuse victim that walks through my door to leave their abuser. I don’t think that’s something unique to me to be honest, I think most doctors do the same.”

John swallowed before continuing, “But you were different, I swear Sherlock; it wasn’t about righting the wrongs of my past it was about helping you. I’ve never invited an abuse victim into my home, I’ve never slept with a patient, I’ve never moved in and started solving crimes with one either. Don’t you think if I had just been in this friendship to right the wrongs of my past that I would have left by now?”

Sherlock stared at him, “But why was I different?” he asked tugging in frustration at his curls. “It doesn’t make any sense. I mean look at me! I’m the most unpleasant, rude, obnoxious arse hole anyone has ever had the misfortune of meeting. Why would you possibly pick me?” His voice lowered to a whisper, “Why was I different?”

“How are you not different?” John asked. “You're beautiful and clever. You have this fantastic sense of humor. You see the world like no one else I’ve ever known. The day I met you, I just saw how good you were and I couldn’t understand how no one else could see it, I still can’t.” John continued, he felt like he was finally saying things that he should have been saying for months, it was terrifying to finally have the words out in the open, but it also left him feeling intensely liberated. “And the time I’ve spent with you since has only enhanced my amazement of the incredible human being you are.

“You and Clara are both right. I do put up walls around my heart; I don’t let people get close to me because in my experience it has never worked out.” John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, “But you were different. From the moment I met you, you were different. And I tried to be professional and tell myself I was your doctor and you were my patient, but that went out the window months ago. You slid in past my defenses and there was nothing I could do to prevent it, and what was worse, once you were in there I didn’t even want to get you out. Even though I knew this was going to be hard, even though I knew that our pasts and the people who we are now would make this next to impossible; I wanted this. I want this.” John amended. “I want this and I want you.” John exhaled shakily, might as well lay all of the cards on the table. “I love you. Those are three words I never thought I would say, but I mean them with my whole heart.”

Sherlock stared at him. He said nothing at all, he just looked at John as though he couldn’t comprehend what he’d just said to him. “I... You... What?” he finally stammered out.

John reached out and cupped Sherlock’s face in his palm, he wiped away a tear that had slid down Sherlock’s cheek. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” He whispered.

“I can’t...” Sherlock murmured, trailing off and turning his face away from John’s. “I can’t do this. We can’t do this. This won’t work.” He tried to climb out of bed.

John released his hold on him, the choice had to be Sherlock’s but words slipped past his lips, “Don’t go,” he begged, his voice barely a whisper.  He couldn't keep doing this, for his own sanity they had to make a decision here and now. “Please, let’s just talk about this. If you feel anything for me at all," John said shakily, "Please.”

John watched as Sherlock swallowed and sat back down on the bed, still refusing to look at John, “I’m not good at this sort of thing,” he replied equally softly. “I don’t-” he broke off and shook his head, “I don’t believe in the words ‘I love you.’”

“Then I will show you, everyday, without the words.” John replied.

Sherlock looked at him skeptically, “That’s not how this works.”

“That’s exactly how this works,” John replied. “If you don’t want to hear the words, that’s fine; before you I’d never wanted to say them. But I will do everything in my power to make you feel loved and wanted. I will force you to eat and drag you to bed and make you sleep. I will have your back, I will beat up criminals for you. I will always be honest with you. I will cherish you everyday even when I want to ring your neck.”

John took a deep breath, “But I won’t share you with drugs, there is no way I can sit by and watch you destroy yourself. I won’t share you with Victor; if you want us you have to be done with him.”

“About Victor...” Sherlock said, trailing off uncertainly.

John exhaled shakily and nodded, as much as he didn't want to know a part of him _needed_ to know why Sherlock had gone to find him.

“It’s not what you think. I didn’t go to find him because I felt any sort of attachment or emotional draw toward him. I went to the place I know he goes on Friday nights to do drugs because Mycroft paid off every drug dealer he could find not to sell drugs to me. I’d thought at first that it was Victor but the was no way it could have been him, he certainly doesn’t have the financial means to perform such a feat. I’m sure it was Mycroft; when I realized that, I knew Victor was the only person I could get to sell to me.” Sherlock shook his head, “When I left I just didn’t know what to do and my brain was too loud. I just wanted to stop thinking, I wanted to stop hurting.” Sherlock looked up at John then and said softly, “I wanted to hurt you as much as you had hurt me.”

John felt his heart break for what had to have been the hundredath time that day. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I wanted to tell you, I did. I just could never find the right time to tell you about my childhood and it’s hard for me to talk about. And I wasn’t sure what I meant to say and if it was something you would deem acceptable in the friends with benefits thing we’ve been trying.”

“I know,” Sherlock told him softly, shaking his head. “I feel the same way about my past but I wasn’t thinking rationally when I left the flat. I wasn’t thinking about how you would feel, I could only see how I felt. And that wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry.” Sherlock said softly.

John leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “Let's just forget about this, yes? I’m sorry I hurt you, you're sorry, too; let's just move on and start being honest, okay?”

Sherlock bit his lip but nodded. “I still don’t know how to do this.” he repeated.

John shrugged, “I don’t really either, to be honest. I don’t let people get this close. But we can learn together, if you want to. We can do this together if you just give me a chance.” Sherlock nodded once and John continued, “It’s not going to be easy all of the time. I can be an arsehole when I’m angry and I don’t always talk about how I’m feeling. But I want this, and all I need to know is that you do too and we can make this work.”

Sherlock looked up at him, searching John’s eyes for something that John hoped and prayed he would find there before he nodded slowly, “I want this, too.”

John leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s; it was all he needed to know.

And everything wasn’t perfect, and everything wasn’t easy, but it was always right.


End file.
